Sleepless
by Niko
Summary: Sequel to Oblivion. Three years after the doors to the Ark closed, the World Congress is set to make the biggest decision facing the survival of the human race since the dawn of its existence. There is little Mycroft Holmes can do to affect the outcome, and the lives of those he cares about are on the wrong side of that deciding line. But there is still hope.
1. Chapter 1

When storage container zero-five-seven stopped showing life signs, the system automatically, without preamble or empathy, alerted Mycroft Holmes via a text message to his private mobile that his younger brother was dead. It wasn't a message he'd expected but neither was it entirely unexpected either. For nearly three years he'd had moments of phantom alerts, checking his phone to find nothing there even as his ears protested to the existence of the sound. He wasn't a scientist; he didn't spend vast amounts of time invested in the workings of the Ark labs. He had duties to perform, governing to influence, projects that required his full attention in which reports listing the studies and findings regarding zero-five-seven were simply figures to be discussed at cabinet meetings in consideration of the human race's options and chances for survival. He didn't visit-what would be the point? He didn't ask for additional metrics which might give insight to his overall well-being. He'd accepted his brother as dead the moment he tested positive and every point he'd proven him wrong since then had offered as much dread as it did solace. It was easier to stay focused when details only mentioned zero-five-seven's progress rather than the well-being of Sherlock Holmes. His death was just one more line item in the next report to address life expectancy and survival limitations for those infected or otherwise affected by the disease.

At least now he wouldn't have to explain to him about John.

Mycroft deleted the message and set his mobile back down. His tea was getting cold. The Americans weren't going to come to a reasonable decision on their own. Life went on, same as it had before, save for the tiniest spark of hope that had rekindled and died like a novelty candle more times than he cared to admit. He sat up straighter in his black leather chair and clicked through his e-mails even as the words seemed to blur together with the pressure of an oncoming headache building behinds his eyes. He'd known from the start he wouldn't be able to get much more done today but it was necessary to try. What else was he going to do? Sit and mourn? Such luxuries didn't exist. The world as they knew it was gone and now even humanity as they knew it was a subject of debate. Things never stopped, the world was always in motion with testaments to futility and ingenuity being totted by prophets of all realms. He had a job to do and it did not involve self pity or reflective grief.

But he'd carried him home with scabbed knees, bargained with him to at least try a bite of sprouts, and put him to sleep with Bach on vinyl. He'd watched him struggle with shoelaces and joined in their parents' lack of surprise when the first word he uttered, aged two, was '_mine_'. The sequence of years were less important than the milestones; from his first case, his first steps, his first day of school. Now, once again, there were lasts. There'd be no rites-neither of them had the time for religion nor the stomach for fantastical piety. There'd be ash and dust, both of which would be doubly destroyed till nothing was left in evidence save for the reports that labeled zero-five-seven, subject prime, as deceased. The one thing Mycroft had chosen to keep safe in a world gone to hell and it was lying in a box like a forgotten doll ready to be dissected and prepped for the fire. His filial heart had been broken long before but he could still feel the pieces as they settled once again.

It was both an irritant and a blessing that he did not need to read his messages to understand what they said. The Americans never changed their tune, and the glaring "Genesis 1:27" in the signature box of his most vocal contact was a vapid reminder of what was at stake. They were both white, christian, god fearing countries that would of course make the "right" decision about the new world they would have to create. Mycroft never did find much cause to trust anyone who believed their actions in life mattered less than their expectations of the one after. What they wanted was genocide pure and simple. And the World Council had the gall to label this cabinet of politicians both theological and scientific who entered into discourse on the future of the human race the Ethics Committee. No one was proud of the way they had slaughtered billions of world citizens in the hopes of eradicating the disease, but it was a shame by the tone of the committee's talks that the call to murder wasn't at its end.

He was supposed to keep John safe. It was the one thing Sherlock bartered for at every step of the way. When he'd promised him in their Baker Street flat that he and John would share their fate, he never dreampt it would come to mean this.

The phone on his desk rang to life, a light against the black shell blinking just in case he'd had the forethought to mute the loud intruder of his thoughts. Mycroft took a deep breath as he considered for a moment, processing easily the likelihood of callers and his willingness to entertain them. Perhaps he'd just be "busy" today and give himself a mild reprieve from anything more than what was already on his plate. Busy sounded good. It sounded much better than indisposed, which he feared he would be if the call was from labs as he suspected. He already knew; he didn't need to hear it. Not having to have it spoken out loud was all he was asking for.

He pushed the speaker button, leaning forward so as not to have to raise his voice. "Yes?" he asked.

Her voice came back with the brassy rustle of projected waves. "Sir, I have Dr. West from the labs on the phone."

"Take a message, would you?" He cleared his throat as something seemed to settle in against the back of his tongue. "In fact, hold all my calls for today."

"Dr. West is priority code alpha, sir... Do you still want me to take a message?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, running his palms down his face before sliding them together to his pursed lips. One couldn't just go and ignore priority levels because they wanted to. Protocol existed to be adhered to and no infringement was just when necessity dictated its existence in the first place. "Go ahead and put him through." He steeled himself in the pause between the click of the call and the empty air. Life goes on. Duty beckons. It was a nice thought to think he might have an afternoon's solace to himself but even at its best it was nothing more than a baseless hope. "How may I help you, Dr. West?" he asked, elbows on the table as he gave his chin something to rest against in the perch of his open palm.

"It's about zero-five-seven, sir. He's awake."

Those weren't the words he'd expected to hear. It took a moment's repetition to even make them make sense. "I wasn't informed he was on the schedule."

"He's not. He woke himself up."

Mycroft let his hand fall to the dark wood of his desk, not needing the anchor anymore as it seemed his disbelief was more than enough to fuel him. "He was in a medically induced and carefully sustained coma. How is that possible?"

"Honestly, sir... we don't know," he said, with no small amount of fascination in his voice. "It was a nightmare to get him sedated once we got our hands on him. From reports it looks like he pulled his probes off and assaulted the orderly who checked on the flatline warning. He's resting now. Kept asking about someone named John. I'd, uh... I'd like to run some more tests on him while he's awake if possible. I know we don't have authorization to wake him but, given the circumstance, would it be-"

"You have other specimens at your disposal," Mycroft reminded him, his teeth itching with agitation. From here on out he was simply going to have to assume his brother was always alive regardless of the impossibility. He was done grieving the living. Sherlock had an annoying habit of winning against the odds and much as he enjoyed the relief of still being an older brother, he did not relish in the anxiety before the reveal.

At least the lab staff were professional enough not to refer to him as anything but his code number. It kept things from getting personal when it was down to a thing of business. "Yes, sir, we do, but none of the other survivors from the camps have a full medical history on file. Zero-five-seven was conscripted as an Ark citizen before contracting the disease and as such he is the only comprehensive before-and-after specimen we have." It was not the first time the doctor had made the case and Mycroft expected it would not be the last.

He rubbed at his face, pen callouses scratching against his nose. It wasn't his decision to make. Sometimes there was a great deal of relief in those words; sometimes it was a mark of defeat. Sometimes he wasn't sure which it was and was simply too tied in bureaucracy to care. It felt like it might be one of the latter times. Numb was a valid response to impotence and with raised voices making clear the announcement of another interruption, numb was just fine by Mycroft.

He'd been expecting this ever since he'd received the text. Someone would surely tell him. It was only the message that had changed but the response had always been assured. Without welcome or announcement, John Watson threw his weight into the door and stormed past the secretary outside as she tried desperately to reel him back. He wasn't having any of it. He walked like a man on a mission and in every way that was exactly what he was. The secretary looked to Mycroft with fear on her face but Mycroft waved her aside, forgiveness in his gentle nod as she bowed and quietly closed the door in John Watson's overconfident wake.

"I expect a full report to be submitted within the next twelve hours," Mycroft continued, wrapping up his phone conversation in full expectation of John not waiting any longer than it took him to approach his desk. "You may make your case at that time for his being retained in a conscious state."

"Thank you, sir. Should we make accommodations for your visit?"

John gave a strong nod but Mycroft pretended not to notice. "No, I don't think so. Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

He hung up before John's correction could make matters inconvenient.

John wasn't the least bit deterred at having lost one audience while he still maintained his target. He stood at the front of Mycroft's desk, fists clenching at his sides, looking every bit the soldier as he kept his back straight and chin raised. The thick metal choker around his neck was almost entirely obscured by the pitch of his checkered collar. "So when do I get to see him?" he asked, no more time for formalities than Mycroft had the stomach for.

Mycroft looked down at his laptop screen, pretending to be very busy if only to remove the tension of awkwardness. This was very much still his place of work even if John felt he had the right to enter as he pleased when circumstances made excuses for him. Mycroft clasped his hands together in an arch over his keyboard, not needing much more than feigned disinterest to keep hold of the power in the room. "He isn't supposed to be awake, John. Chances are, as soon as they hear word, they'll demand he be put to bed again."

"Even if he's only awake for five minutes before they give an order, that's five minutes we didn't have before. Those minutes count; they matter. Maybe you don't want them, but I do." John paced nervously, licking his lips as he surveyed the room like a predator more so than frightened prey. "Just tell them I have clearance. You don't have to come. But I want to see him."

Mycroft hid his taut lips behind his woven fingers. "You imagine I have far more power in this situation than I do."

"You may not be in control, but you can _bloody-well_ influence the people who are." The classic Watson rage was never far out of sight when matters intimately involved Sherlock. His nostrils flared slightly though his eyes betrayed a different emotion. "I haven't seen him in three years. Please."

"Don't exaggerate," Mycroft warned. "You've only been awake for five months."

"Dreams don't count. Those were wasted years."

"You can hardly place that blame on anyone but yourselves." Mycroft sat back in his chair with a tired squeak of leather as he watched the performance play out across John's features like a film in the cinema. He'd always been a very expressive individual. Time had made ridges where emotions laid all their best lines though the months had washed some of their depth away.

John scowled at him, his blue eyes fierce. "If you won't let me in, I'll still find a way. I'm just giving you the opportunity to choose the easy way before this all has to go in a report," he mocked.

Mycroft grimaced with displeasure, pain sparking at the base of his spine from a ridged posture his own years had learned to protest to. "It's not just yourselves you'd be damning," he reminded him, never one to be overly impressed by the impulsiveness of idiots.

John shrugged his shoulders with a nonchalance unsuited to the tone of discussion. "Yeah, well we did the whole 'greater good' thing already. This is where that got us. Sorry, but we were doing a hell of a lot better when we were only interested in ourselves. At least then when people wanted to kill us we had the option to run." He put his fingertips to the metal band around his neck where the engravings zero-five-eight branded him inescapably.

He was being played and he knew it. Mycroft was never one to be manipulated against his will-no master manipulator worth his salt ever would be-and a heart of ice was an absolute protection against all forms of guilt or incentive. But he loved his brother, and his brother loved the brash man before him who never once gave Mycroft reason to doubt that he was a good and necessary accompaniment to their lives. Sherlock was asking for him. Sherlock wanted to see John.

The only thing he'd asked of him was to keep John safe. He supposed it was only right for him to apologize in person.


	2. Chapter 2

John put his right hand down against the pillow beside the fall of dark brown curls as he leaned down, eyes closed, and kissed his somewhat bewildered looking best friend on his full but subtly chapped lips. No more regrets. No more uncertainty or hesitation. Neither of them had the excess of time that promised the opportunity to crawl before they ran. He loved him. He was the most dear thing on all the earth to him. So it only made sense that before hello, before pleasantries, before the usual and expected greetings between two close and well traveled friends, that he make good on a promise aged three long years before moving on to the present and its warning of dread. Sherlock did not appear to disagree. Despite the hesitancy of surprise, perhaps the lethargy and uncoordinated efforts of the sleep addled and drowsy, he had his fingers curled into the fold of John's jumper within moments of their reunion, pulling him down even as he arched himself up claim the space between them where there was still far too much open air. The surge of relief was overwhelming in the moment when John knew Sherlock was not only awake but that he was his. No more dreams to placate or fantasies to wile away vacant years. They were both returned. Time to start the journey again.

John left the kiss as a chaste exchange though his tongue ever sought a new place to play. He kissed him once long and lingering, then again in short, successive, parting apologies as the proximity proved to be too wanted to employ an honorable retreat. He let his hands slide to the sides of Sherlock's face, thumbs pressed to the cusp of his cheekbones as his palms filled in the hollows beneath. He pressed his forehead to his, noses crossed like swords, and let his dark blue eyes remain closed as he felt the warmth of his skin and the pulse of his breath in a relaxed exhalation that breezed across his jaw and down his neck. He could spend forever in this moment of content with Sherlock's hands taking ownership of all he could reach with the possessive embrace of a spoilt child.

"I could punch you," Sherlock rumbled into the air between their chins, his hands tightening in their hold along the good doctor's ribs.

John chuckled breathlessly, thumbs caressing the raised flesh of his cheeks amidst the flutter of feather-soft lashes. "For that?" he asked, guiltlessly tilting down to taste just once more against the promised rise of his cupids bow.

He could feel Sherlock smile in the fullness of his cheeks and the stretch of his lips as they tucked into his palms. "No," he said. "Unrelated. Though I expect driven by similar motive."

John smirked and straightened up, giving them both some more space though with it came added perspective. For nearly three years they'd dreamed of friendship, never remembering the promise of more as incentive. There had to be more to life than just survival, they'd agreed. And here they were again.

"You should have mentioned you wanted to be alone," Mycroft called from the doorway, looking down at the watch on his wrist with agitation and an unlikely excuse for avoiding their direction.

John shrugged, still feeling rather bold having spent the past half hour barging into offices, making demands, and snogging his best mate. He rather enjoyed the power trip after spending far too long at the mercy of others. "I've nothing to hide," he said, planting both hands against the white sheets of the hospital bed. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Not so long as you are now finished."

Lucky for Mycroft's sensibilities, he was. John had no real reason to engage in public displays of affection above and beyond the impulse to not wait a second longer for certain affairs. He nodded curtly and moved his hand down along the edge of the bed until his fingers found Sherlock's as he took his post beside him. He might not have been as smart as either brother, but he knew when and how he was needed. Sherlock's fingers curled reservedly along John's which John spread out and covered with his own to assure no hesitancy was required. They'd been friends all their lives and on the edge of more for only hours before it all ended and started over. John was choosing more. And maybe, if he was lucky, when Sherlock wasn't fresh from sleep and simply happy to see him, he'd decide to choose more as well.

The hospital room certainly wasn't unlike anything they'd seen before. Painfully white with fluorescent light that pressed all eyes to squint, it was one of many identical cells where patients were brought to be slowly awoken and cared for as they fought to remember what was real as the fantasies faded in memory. John remembered his own time spent reconciling death and opportunity in the lonely room. They weren't good memories. Lots of things were better left in the past.

For his part, Mycroft looked as stoic as ever. John hadn't expected a big, wet faced, brotherly reunion but it was interesting in a way how aloof they both held themselves in the presence of the other. It was an act, and an old one at that. They both cared and anyone who mattered knew it-meaning the three of them exclusively. In his perfectly pressed three-piece suit, Mycroft was still a figure of authority while Sherlock, draped in thin pajamas and tucked loosely under the sheets, was clinging very well to his air of indifference at seeing his brother once more.

Mycroft walked from the door to the bedside, taking a seat in one of the provided chairs as he crossed his legs, knee over knee, in a comfortable recline. "Have the staff spoken to you?" he asked, fingers tapping against the armrests.

"Pointlessly." Sherlock watched his brother intently, eyes keen in their focus. "Seems to be quite a big deal that I'm awake now, though it appears I'm not the only one."

"No. A fair amount are awake, in fact. The fight against the disease is at an end."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in an interested arch. "You have a cure?" he asked. The hopeful sound of his voice made John's fingers curl to squeeze his hand.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. It has simply run its course. There are those who never were sick-those who were tucked away in safety-and then a small percentage of the rest of the world that are like you. The illness may still exist but it cannot penetrate these walls."

"That only matters if you never plan to leave," Sherlock muttered, his mood embittered as he sulked into his pillow.

His brother nodded, eyes drifting to the floor as he let the tone of their silence settle there among the tiles. He took a deep breath, shoulders rising on the inhale as his neck lengthened on the sigh. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, uninterested. "I feel fine."

"No weakness from muscle atrophy? No blindness from your previous illness? I see you failed to notice the state of your own arms."

Sherlock's heavy brow furrowed as he looked to his brother for signs of dementia. John squeezed his hand again. Remembering the reality was always much harder than forgetting the dream. This was something else entirely.

His arms were pale and without blemish, the skin smooth under the brush of John's thumb as he gently stroked the back of his hand. His hair had grown in over three years and not a bald spot remained nor threat of one lingered. His pupils dilated and tracked motion smoothly. He looked like the man they had both dreamed of instead of the scarred and tormented creature that had been taken from John in the garden of the Wilks' home. And he sure as hell, under normal reckoning, was not supposed to. John watched as Sherlock stared at his own flesh without comprehending and waited as the brows fell with confused accusation and the lips drew into a startled pout.

Mycroft was watching as well. He smiled lightly, some affection dripping into his voice from the otherwise detached delivery. "In your dreams you were whole and active. I don't suppose it occurred to you that you should not be. There's no need to be alarmed. You are, indeed, fine. It's been a source of interest for our scientists for a long time and most questions you may have have their answers." He set both feet down on the floor and leaned forward, hands steepled at his nose in a manner that seemed to run in the family. "The first question is, of course, 'how?'. How are you in perfect physical condition? You might not choose the word 'perfect' on your own but it is the correct one. The same protein that identifies the disease in the human body is apparently responsible for modifying the gene that regulates how human cells are repaired and replaced. Normally, despite old cells being replaced by new ones, they do so on a degrading scale. Not yours. Not anymore. When your cells are replaced they are replaced as copies based on the genetic blueprint rather than of their predecessor. In another seven years you will more or less be completely remade. A perfect specimen of the mature, adult male aged roughly twenty-five."

Sherlock stared at him then shot a quick glance towards John as though weighing the odds of this all being a very elaborate joke. John's reaction to being told hadn't been much different five months earlier. It had sounded like a miracle. It had all sounded too good to be true. So, of course, it was.

"You can imagine the scientists' shock when they first realized your scars were fading," Mycroft continued. "It had never occurred to anyone that the protein was not merely part of the disease but that the disease was transportation for it. One doesn't recover from the illness, Sherlock; one is changed by it. And right now there are hundreds of men, women and children in this world, like you, who are considered by most to no longer be human."

Sherlock turned his free hand over against the bed, watching the easy movement of fingers that should have atrophied into stilted jerks and the unmarred skin that no surgeon could have replaced. "Is it still contagious?" he asked.

"Very. Several test subjects were taken from the Ark project to see just how severely. While none of them exhibited signs as sever as the diseased stages, all are now considered to have the same... condition. Their cells are in a constant process of regeneration rather than a normal one of decay."

"Then you do have a cure."

"No. We have an option. And sadly not one that is easily weighed." Mycroft rose up from his chair, palms rubbing against the bronze pinstripes of his dark drown trousers. He usually looked much younger when he spoke to Sherlock, little bits of their childish feud taking the years from his eyes as petty grins and snide comments passed between them timelessly. Now he just looked old. John pitied him a little, knowing most of it came from the weight of the world sat pressed against his shoulders. The seas were spilling, the mountains were crumbling, and he simply had no other arms with which to carry his brother as well. John would never envy the sort of power that forced the man to take sides. Being his own person in a world that quite heavily revolved around the whims of Sherlock Holmes was hard enough. And admittedly they did not have even half the history the two brothers shared and which remained mostly in shadows to John. Mycroft did not bend to the pressure but stood firmly under it, a half smile offered his brother not in humor but in reference to being without any. "To become like you and the others would mean an end to cancer. An end to organ failure or adverse mutations. An end to old age. It is eternal youth and longevity, so to speak. And while individually there appear to be few side effects, there are social implications to having a population of people who will never grow out of reproductive maturity. Civilizations would regrow quickly but never tapper off as the entire world eventually would have to consider the consequences of exponential growth. Resources are finite but populations would be infinite. You and those like you are as much a promise of hope as you are a threat. Which is why the world council is debating whether or not we should accept that risk and leave the consequences to future generations, or murder you all now to preserve the human race as it has been and remain underground until new measures can be taken to reclaim the surface."

Sherlock scowled, heavy brows darkening his eyes. "I don't suppose anyone thought coexisting would make a viable option."

"The protein can be passed to sexual partners and progeny. Eventually everyone would become genetically modified. It is all or nothing. Globally. We must all be in agreement or the majority must eliminate the opposition." He offered raised palms in supplication, though nothing else in his stance or voice hinted towards anything but useless gestures. "Discussions have been going on for months. I expect it to take longer still. Every survivor the world over, hundreds if not thousands of people who haven't the slightest idea what is at stake and think the worst is over are being argued over like criminals for the crime of failing to die. I had hoped you would remain as ignorant as them. About a great many things."

"Oh?"

Mycroft let his eyes rise from his brother's prone form to look instead at John. His face remained closed off but John had seen that look in his eyes enough times to know the thoughts going on behind it. He offered back a partial grin, shrugging his shoulders with a nonchalance that in the past had served him well. "I sort of expected him to notice the wrinkles," he said, giving Sherlock's hand a pat and the man himself a crooked grin. "Most observant man in the world my arse."

The detective scowled slightly, no more than a plaintive expression, before the grey-sky eyes boiled over into molten silver and his gaze jerked back to glare in rage at his brother.

Mycroft was already resigned to it. "He was accepted into the Ark with qualifications that set him up as little more than breeding stock. When it came to expendable resources-"

"_You infected him?_"

"It wasn't against my will," John interjected, turning Sherlock's chin towards him though the other man jerked away from the coercive tug. "They asked me and I said yes."

"You're a moron. I expect this sort of impulsive, suicidal nonsense from you. From _him_ I expected better, though!"

John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's chest, leaning in till Sherlock was eclipsed once more by his shadow, his pale arm raised to shove John away as his willingness to listen further fell all but extinct. "I am not a moron," John said, leaving all playfulness aside. "I knew what I was agreeing to and it was not impulsive either. I knew there was a chance I'd get sick. I knew there was chance I could die. But I can't stand by and watch again. I _can't_. So when they asked, when they said I could give them information that could help decide whether your life is worth keeping, you'd better believe I volunteered."

Sherlock glared at him, shoving hard against his opposite shoulder with the crux of his arm. "If you think I'm impressed or flattered, you're wrong," he spat, rage coloring his cheeks with the rush of his pulse.

John rolled with the shove, not moving more than inch before fixing his stance. He stayed close so his voice could remain at a hushed scratch above a whisper. "I think you wouldn't be nearly this angry if you weren't in love with me. So I'll take it as a compliment," he said, trying not to smile as Sherlock's expression rolled in waves of fury, surprise, and annoyance.

"I've half a mind to stop," he uttered through a pouted grimace.

"If you can figure out how to stop being in love with someone by sheer force of will, your days as a test subject aren't anywhere near over." John raised one brow and stood straight, letting Sherlock shove him aside this time as he pushed himself higher against the pillows.

"Stop placating," he ordered, though the fires had dimmed to embers and ash. He still looked at Mycroft with far more contempt than forgiveness but that was to be expected-had already been accounted for. Sherlock did not want John to be ill, to be counted among the infected, to share whatever burden that was put upon him by the fault of his own secretive impulsiveness. He did not want John to share in this particular adventure.

Well, too bad. He didn't get to make all the decisions. And if he thought John could be made to be content with simply being there on the other side of the divide again, he was far beyond just being wrong. There were a lot of things John had decided in the past five months; a lot of changes and a lot resolutions for things that should never change. They were in this together, through hell and high water, and for lack of a better phrase, not till death would they part.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock buttoned his shirt up just below the peaked collar, knuckles hovering above the metal band fastened around his neck. That was going to drive him mad. He had never been one for fussy shirts and constricting ties. Functionality and comfort were the only concerns he cared to take into consideration when dressing himself and never had either column included a caveat for neck adornments. It was close to the skin, constrictive in the way it did not permit for much more swelling than it took to swallow. A ghastly thing he had a right mind to remove if not for the well-meant warning.

_If you attempt to take it off before it's deactivated, you'll trigger the safety and it will poison you,_ the nurse had said. Then again, its entire function was to poison him. Trying to take it off was simply an act of suicide when the contraption was supposed to be a means of murder. Remote activated execution should he try and hide, try to run, try to take over the Ark in a mad grab for power to thwart the democratic process. While he begrudged them their methods, he couldn't help but be pleased they had so little faith in his ability to go quietly into the night. He hoped very much to prove their expectations correct. It was all just a matter of how.

John certainly wasn't going to be of much help seeing as he was on the same side of the divide as Sherlock himself was. Such a stupid, pointless risk. Sherlock had half a mind to... well, do nothing, honestly. What would be the point? It was done and John seemed unharmed though one could argue he was far from unchanged. Passionate kisses aside-though it certainly warranted its own thoughts-he seemed to have the same sense of annoyance towards the world that he usually reserved for Sherlock. It was nice to see hints of that fuse burning down on his behalf rather than in its usual response. He wasn't giving up but he was certainly fed up. Good. So was Sherlock. In that particular case, the more they had in common the better.

John watched him from across the room, sitting up against a table with hands perched against the end. "You get used to it," he said, motioning towards the collar in a vague jerk of his nose. Sherlock could see its match against John's skin as well, tucked under layers but obvious now that he'd had a moment to get a better look at him. Everything was obvious. He was downright baby-faced in comparison to the deep wrinkles that used to fall into his frown lines. Still present were the bags under his eyes but they were much recessed from those of John of old. Sherlock wasn't quite sure he liked it. He was rather a fan of the expressive ridges in his face. It would take some getting used to.

As far as his own changes, Sherlock did his best not to look too often into the floor length mirror set to help him dress. The last time he'd seen that face it had been gaunt, the body wasting, and the veins of his left arm set to collapse. He did not care to note the health in it now. Best to ignore it all together. He could not help but run his fingertips under the collar, though, and rotate it round his neck to try and find a less constricting placement. "I don't care to get used to it," he muttered, giving up at last with a scowl. "I'm not a pet."

"Welcome to my life for the past five months."

Sherlock scowled further, looking over his shoulder at his friend as he set to tuck down the ends of his shirt. "You volunteered," he reminded him with as much accusation as snark.

John shrugged, chin wrinkled by his drawn lips. "Yeah. Still not the maddest thing I've ever done."

"No, I suppose not." Several certainly came to mind, not least of all was choosing to stay by Sherlock's side with every reason to believe he'd get sick and no promise of his own survival. And then, of course, there was Afghanistan. Really, the man was prone to madness. It rather put the kiss into perspective.

White ends tucked and fly closed, Sherlock weaved his matching belt through the black loops with some minor annoyance at its flimsy make. Whosever it was had no taste in quality wares. He could feel the cheap, imitation leather bite into his hips with too little give and too wide of ends making uncomfortable ridges to set against his bone. It was a testament to how dire their circumstances were that one couldn't even get a quality belt at the end of days. Still, it wasn't borrowed women's' wear or any of the other garments they'd made do with. A cheap belt and clothes that fit loosely but not comically so were fine in the scheme of things. At least the work they had left to do required much less leg work.

"So... what do we do now?" John asked, his time spent observing Sherlock dress with a doctor's stare now past its time of use with the detective suited in all but jacket, socks and shoes.

To that end, Sherlock sat on the bed and crossed his ankle over his knee, alternating with each black combo. "Now we do as we've always done; we investigate."

"Investigate what exactly?"

"The people responsible for manufacturing the disease in the first place."

John's hairline scrunched as his brows knitted above his dark blue eyes. "The _what_?"

"We're dealing with a disease that just happens to affect the human genome and you think it's a freak coincidence of nature? Possible-several millions to one-but much more likely is that someone decided to play god and overestimated their ability to control their new creation." Sherlock did not attempt to hide the grim satisfaction in his voice as he gave John a not-so-subtle peek into the thoughts that had been running through his head since their little conversation before his brother's humble exodus. They'd been given a task of the highest order in language no camera could pick up and no microphone could hear. It was good to know there was still a use for the world's only consulting detective even now.

John's face skewed around his wrinkled nose, his eyes creasing in a parody of the lines that once were. "You mean like some sort of super soldier program they've always got in the movies?"

"As so often happens, life imitates art. Who wouldn't want a breed of soldiers who can bounce back from wounds and rejoin ranks in far less than half the time? Last I saw you you'd been shot. Locked in a drawer for several years, I can only imagine the stiffness and discomfort the wound would have given you upon waking up. Five months later and you walk like you were never wounded. How long did that take?"

"Two months, maybe." John nodded, an outward sign to the acceptance within. "And, yeah, I was in a wheelchair for most of the first one. Not going to lie and pretend that had nothing to do with me volunteering. Not really the sitting down type."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he set both black soles to the floor. "No. And a much better excuse for it than wanting to be with me. Don't say that again. It's... weird." He stood up, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair, not giving John more than a moment to understand the swift aside before plunging back into the matter at hand. "Now, there are two types of science: intentional and unintentional. Intentional science says someone wanted this to happen and helped it do so. Unintentional is far less sinister and makes a great deal more sense when you consider the fact that most things are tested on animals long before they see human trials."

"And we know animals could be carriers." John said, trudging along as well as to be expected.

"Exactly. That's the problem with using live subjects; you never know what they've got incubating inside them. Laboratory conditions are only a surface distinction."

John continued to nod as a show of his involvement, arms crossing over the open neck of his cardigan. "So someone was testing on animals, the protein ends up attaching to some viral strand, and it gets loose," he surmised, waiting for Sherlock's small hint of approval before furthering his inquiry. "If that were true, though, you'd expect all the first cases to be centralized. From what I remember, it was a little more random than that. Mostly major cities but pretty global."

"It took a month for symptoms to show in me and if we run with the hypothesis that they too would have first been exposed through an animal carrier, that would allow plenty of time for them to spread it before anyone was the wiser. Lovers, donors, drug users-there's all kinds in this world and just sneezing on an aircraft could make it a world-wide pandemic at an alarming rate."

"Obviously Mycroft would have figured this out too. He hasn't said anything to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He enjoyed showing off but some details were just too tedious. "The world is still trying to work out survival, you think Mycroft is going to engage in the petty politics of finger pointing? If there's to be an inquiry, and I'm sure there will be eventually, it will be had when more pressing issues are at a close."

"At which point they'd have already decided what's to happen with us." John acknowledged with a lick of his bottom lip. He pushed off from the table, taken to a slow pace at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock watched him with a mischievous smirk. "Which is why it's always good to remember that I am not my brother. It may be petty politics but I'm not handing my survival over to a committee when there exists somewhere the materials and notes related to the research that caused this. And if they found a way to isolate and implant the protein responsible-"

"-They might be able to negate it," John finished for him, snapping his fingers like the proverbial lightening that had struck.

"Precisely. Block the protein and maybe we can't cure the disease but we can keep the side-effect of survival from causing additional concern."

"And save our skins."

"Always my favorite part."

"Mine too," John said, a fair bit more hope in his expression than had been there in the start. Sherlock could almost see his pulse quickening, the excitement of a battle plan energizing him beyond the fears of futility. How they would manage to carry out their investigation was a detail Sherlock was only half concerned with. They weren't going to accept any decision lying down. It was as much a mindset as it was a game plan and Sherlock had made do with much less in the past.

John's flushed face looked off to right, his hand cupping the side of his neck in a sheepish posture that did not bode well as Sherlock watched his body language with growing apprehension. "Speaking of skin," he said, licking his lips again. "I know I never said so before but, uh… you're a good looking guy. Especially when you're animated and, uh.. well, impassioned. Not that it mattered but I'm glad I get to see that face again outside a dream."

"Don't," Sherlock warned again, his face contorted as though he'd bitten a lemon. "That's not us."

"What's not?"

"The… oh, you know. Saying things. Like that. You even sound stilted trying—it's painful to listen to, honestly." Sherlock regretted not having more to do in the hospital room to make himself look occupied or busy beyond the requirements of conversation. Did they really have to do… _this_?

John let his left-hand fall, placing it against his hip instead. "So, what, I'm not allowed to say I find you attractive?"

"Preferably not. It's too… trite. Too obvious. It sets my skin crawling to hear that sort of nonsense from you. Besides which, we have much more important things to discuss," he implored, though still trying to make it sound simply bothersome and uninteresting an alternative.

The spark in John seemed to fall into shadow, his brows set to furrow as his lips pursed to pout. His teeth nibbled against his bottom lip before setting it free on a word. "Is this a '_let's not_' or just a… '_not like that_'?" he asked, all jokes aside and seriousness well inferred.

They didn't need this anymore. They had a greater reason to survive, an entire subset of the human race to champion, a defining path and an outlined goal. They didn't need to change anything about themselves to offer some light in the darkness.

Sherlock didn't _need_ to do most of the things he pursued, though. Want really hadn't steered him wrong in the past. "Not like that," he echoed, watching the hint of a smile pull back into the corners of John's mouth. He ignored it in favor of maintaining the superiority of appearing to care the least, walking towards the door to hasten their retreat from the static white confines of the room. "I haven't forgotten. Though your choices have improved quite a bit from me or nothing to include a number of other survivors, technicians—"

He jolted as John's palm made quick and sudden contact with his backside, the muted smack not making much of a sound though it set Sherlock's back straight and his step to halt. John leaned in against his shoulder, nudging his way out in front. "'Nothing' was _always_ an option—not a lack of one," he corrected him. "You ready?"

Sherlock nodded, not quite sure what to think but relatively sure that counted in the list of reasons why John Watson was the least boring man he'd ever met and as stubborn as he was mad. He held his chin high, not about to let his proud stature be compromised by juvenile antics as he walked on.

John wore the sort of grin that went well with his youthful complexion. "Not gonna tell me not to do that either?"

"Did I say anything?"

"Nope."

"Then stop being an idiot."


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft hadn't been out of his office for more than an hour and already there were five missed calls, a dozen or so e-mails, and one Mr. Fergus Chapman waiting for him in his office. His assistant looked appropriately harried, her lipstick worn thin on all but the outer lines from fretting her lips between her teeth. The afternoon had not been a smooth one for either of them but far more stressing on even a normal day was a visit from the man who was formally in charge of the Ark-their proverbial Noah-who seemed to be as eager as everyone else to know what had happened, why it had happened, and what they were going to do about it.

"He asked for coffee, yes?" Mycroft said, stalling mildly if only to keep Mr. Chapman's ego well in check should he think to make such visits a habit. Far too often men of his position tended to make the mistake of thinking Mycroft worked for them, not quite understanding how puppet strings worked.

His secretary nodded, hands twitchy in their grasp against the lap of her skirt. "Yes, sir," she confirmed, chin tucked to the point of which her thin face took on a double chin. "I've asked that someone bring it up. Would you like-"

"Coffee for me as well, thank you. And if there's any to spare, I'll have a brandy once he leaves." Mycroft fixed his tie, making sure it fell evenly at the point of his vest.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

Mycroft looked at her, knowing quite well how bad this all must look though in its details, as far as it concerned the layman, it was nothing but a trifle. Simple people were easily frightened, though. He missed "Anthea" at times like these. A shame there was never any means to save those who had already died. "As far as it concerns the safety and welfare of the British public, all is very well indeed, Sarah. My brother is awake. It's no more and no less sensational than that." He offered a smile though even his own face could feel there was little there to convince anyone. "Make it two brandies, if you like. It will be a long day for both of us."

She nodded, her nervous hand movements stilling as the chipped paint of her lips split further with a smile. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He waved aside the platitudes and stepped forward to the closed doors of his office, opening the one and walking inside with a perfect mask of disinterest in place as he looked out at the back of Mr. Chapman's grey head.

The Prime Minister and most of Parliament had died in the early months of the disease. Of the few elected officials remaining, only Chapman had the seniority to lead and the relative youth to see the project through. It was all for show, anyway. Real governing forces were always behind the scenes, not motivated by public opinion and reelection but focused solely on the good of the country and, in this case, the world. Elected officials were more like polls to see in which direction the country was biased to keep their opinions in mind and stave off rebellion in appeasing those things which also rang true for the greater good. Mr. Chapman hadn't really come to recognize his position as largely that of a figurehead to make everyone feel happy about democracy still prevailing even in times of trials. Mr. Chapman instead seemed very eager to prove himself, to create a better Britain, and to do it for the glory of himself and the line of his decedents and in every way that best provided for the image he'd created for himself.

Plato had been right to criticize democracy and lucky for Britain, their leaders had long ago made an institution of one-way mirrors behind which to observe, influence and control. A man who really fights for justice must lead a private, not a public, life if he is to survive for even a short time. Plato would be proud to note his ideal Republic did indeed exist under the guise of the democracy he so despaired. Mycroft knew he would be just as disappointed as he himself was now to know that those mirrors were cracked and the illusion harder to maintain when the separation between puppet master and the stage were not but a few halls and heavy, ornate doors.

Mr. Chapman stood as Mycroft came closer to his desk, hands extended to shake without the pleasantries of smiles between them. "You were there?" he asked with little doubt indeed that he had been, or concern that his statement was too vague not to be understood. He was an ugly man without his beard and mustache, both having been outlawed as unhygienic. He looked very much like the weasel Mycroft believed him to be, which was in no part inspiring when such meetings transpired.

"Zero-five-seven's condition has been confirmed," Mycroft said, immediately formalizing the inquiry should Mr. Chapman feel inclined to make comment on his relation. "He is awake and in excellent health. The overseeing physicians believe he has adapted to the medications they've been administering to the Ark residents over the past few years. Considering what we know of his kind, it may take some time to find a viable means to maintain a comatose state in the future in a healthy manner. He is collared and being retained in the same block as the other test subjects in a rudimentary quarantine."

"Is it enough?"

"You can track him via the collar and oversee his every movement, there are cameras in every room if you need visual confirmation, and you have at your disposal the remote activator with which to kill him. I'm sure that is sufficient if not excessive," he explained, unbuttoning his jacket before taking a seat at his desk. He pressed the lid of his laptop closed, hiding his messages even while more than mildly certain his guest had already taken to snooping. It was for show, anyway. If one didn't try at least to keep secrets from close acquaintances there was really no point in having them.

Mr. Chapman scowled, his lip twitching in a manner that no longer translated well without the mustache. "Never can tell with their kind."

"_Their kind_ is a genetic distinction, not one of character. You have no more to fear from them than you do any other man or woman in the Ark."

The thought did not persuade him. Mycroft was used to it, especially from certain factions in his closed-door discussions. "Be that as it may, they're worried, Mycroft" the man said, continuing his his trend of being vague in a manner that was befitting nearly every politician in existence. He seemed tired and Mycroft had no doubt that he probably was, what with having been up all night discussing things on normal hours for GMT-5.

Sarah knocked at the door before entering, small tray holding two coffee mugs held aloft in one hand as she carried it evenly to the desk for their service, the moderate heels of her black, polished shoes click-clacking on the wood before going silent against the rug. She placed each mug down before its match: black for Mr. Chapman, cream and sugar for Mycroft. He thanked her with a smile and took a careful sip of the hot brew, his mind waiting patiently for a jump-start to make the rest of the day more tolerable. "The whole world is worried," he corrected, trying to add perspective to a topic that, even if he allowed to be dropped, would come back around almost instantly anyway. Better to stay on topic than search for an out; better to be seen as proactive than apply tactics of aversion.

Mr. Chapman's upper lip twitched again as he lowered his coffee mug, swishing non-existent drops of liquid from an equally absent patch of hair. "Exactly," he said, kind enough to keep mindful of the coasters as he placed his mug to the desk. "Which is why I fail to see why you are of such opposition to any concession which would make people happy. There is evil in this world. The good Lord sent the floods of old to rid us of it and here we are again, carried through to salvation over the waves of sickness no different from the ancient tides. You don't think it rather prophetic that we're sitting here in an underground facility built and named decades ago after a biblical vessel of salvation?"

"The Ark is nothing more than a war relic; a bomb shelter named at a time when most of the civilized world was trying to out-Christian the Nazis with their own religious propaganda," Mycroft reminded him, though the tale always seemed a moot point of fact to those that preferred to see signs. He wrapped his palms around the coffee mug, tapping his fingertips against the ceramic. "I wouldn't bother listening to the Americans in any great detail when it comes to their doomsday prophesies. They're little more than a theocracy now with nothing but a legacy of fear, intolerance, and warmongering to hold on to."

"They do have a point, though. Revelations has a lot relevance with our current predicament. The plague, possible rapture, the Antichrist-"

"Zero-five-seven is not the Antichrist," Mycroft reminded him, his tolerance levels drastically reduced at the umpteenth time he'd had to make the defense. "Many people have survived the disease and their condition is identical to his. It's not a matter of unexplainable, mystical forces that they're alive or that they're bodies are now changed the way they are. It's a matter of science."

"Sherlock Holmes was always known to have _otherworldly_ powers. You can't deny that. And who's to say that these people didn't sell their souls to Satan to survive?"

It was like being in primary school all over again. All the poncy brats all standing in their uniforms, bolstered by a cry of complete uniformity to weed out the different and unique. Sherlock with skinned knees and red cheeks-he swore he wasn't crying-and his books covered in dirt and lying scattered on the ground. He wasn't a freak. He wasn't a demon. He wasn't the antichrist. He was a boy, now a man, with a love of appreciation and the skills to command it. Some things never changed and the world was chief among them, even now. "The only people who are saying so are scared and looking for answers anywhere they find comforting. It is easier to fight evil than it is to recognize the selfishness and envy inside us all. Sherlock Holmes is a gifted man, he was a sick man, and now he is changed man. But he was and always has been nothing more than a human being," he said, keeping his delivery emotionless as he battled with the syllables of his brother's given name where numbers customarily fell. "The Americans have made an art-form of pressing their own ideology as the deliverance of good and its absence as the cause of all ills. But if you insist in pursuing their religious dogma, may I remind you that even God had room on the Ark for the unclean. Or is that one of the many details that have slipped their remembering and not been seen as fit for retention?"

Mr. Chapman held his jaw tight, the clenching of his teeth making his cheeks stretch with the tendons at his temples. "I'm just saying it's worth considering."

No, it wasn't. And Mycroft had had just about as much for one day as he cared to entertain. "Shall we consider the idea this is all due to aliens as well? A cunning Dalek attack, perhaps?" he asked, voice cold though the bite of his derision was far from understated.

"You're out of line," the politician stammered, heavy brows even heavier in their decent upon his dark brown eyes.

"If we're going to entertain one impossibility, why not all of them? You have the best scientific minds in the country at your disposal and they have answers, hard proof, and evidence. If you would rather look to the supernatural for an explanation than make use of the resources we have taken great pains to procure, then what hope does a rational society have of emerging with the tools of survival when all is said and done?"

"Our rational society was all but wiped out," Mr. Chapman advised, his fist pounding emphatically against the hard wood of the desk. "Maybe it's time for a pious one."

Mycroft shook his head, still finding it hard to believe some days that this was the battleground left for them-something ancient and proven false for nearly every civilization under the sun. "Yes, because historically that has brought our nation unity and prosperity."

"I'm just saying. It's worth considering."

"Then consider me having given it thought and, having done as such, came away with the exact same conclusions as I held to before."

"You don't want the Americans as your enemies, Mycroft," he warned, mistaking anger for ignorance where in Mycroft there was neither.

"And they won't be. I hold a minor position in the British government. However, I would invite you to consider just how much you really need them to be your allies. The biggest guns rarely are held by those with the greatest intentions. A coward draws his weapon when he has no skill to think of an alternative. To the wise, there is always an alternative."

Mr. Chapman leaned forward with a grim scowl. "You know what happens? Wise men get shot."

"Then by all means, let this be a world of homicidal idiots." Mycroft sat back in his seat, fingers tented at his chin. Coffee had little to do with the rush through his veins at battling a moron in a game of whits. His puppets considered themselves automatons and with such limited resources, it was far too often a battle to maintain order in the midst of small bouts of rebellion. He could not and would note lose. "You can either hand the Americans the power they already believe they are entitled to, or you can stand up for Britain. You cannot do both. There is no happy middle ground between disease and mutation or the devil's handiwork. Will Britain stand for reason and work on the real issues at hand, or will it fall to fear and adopt the ways of self-vindicating prejudice?"

The puppet shook its head, twisting up its strings. "You're just worried about your brother," it said, moving its lips to someone else's voice.

"Not once did I say that reason and rational thought meant that the formally diseased should become the ideal. Since you presume, however, permit me to set the record straight." Mycroft placed his elbows on the table, eyes like chiseled ice, frozen and deceptively transparent. "I do not believe we can afford the risk of allowing mankind to adapt as they have. I do think there are better ways to handle the situation than genocide, though. We need more time spent investigating treatments and less time arguing over the definition of humanity. And while you are free to presume that I speak from my own self interest, I would remind you that there are hundreds of people like my brother in camps outside the military instillation in Sandhurst who would like to live just as much as he would."

"With as limited of resources as we have, you think we can afford to keep them alive?"

Mycroft closed his fingers into a joint fist to rest his chin across. "I would rather send them to their deaths knowing it was for reasons of sustainability than in the name of fear. That is something I would not hang my head in shame for, though I would bow it in respect of their sacrifice. But before you start worrying about having allies across the ocean, Mr. Chapman, I'd consider having a little more concern for having allies right here at home."

The little man with big aspirations stood up from his chair. "Is that a threat?"

"I wouldn't presume to threaten you. Though perhaps you should consider why it is you should find such a statement threatening in the first place. You may find your concerns are much closer to home than you realize," Mycroft explained, not so much as batting a single lash as he maintained a chilly gaze that did not stray nor falter. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a council to inform of zero-five-seven's updated status. I'm sure you can imagine their interest in the subject."

Mr. Chapman bristled, lips pulled back in a sneer as he leaned in against the desk with one hand. "Don't forget, Mycroft. I'm the one with the kill-switch."

"That would only matter if I wore a collar." He smiled thinly, hands still poised under his chin in comfortable resistance as he failed to take the bait.

The puppet marched out on thin strings, trailing a few broken ones behind him that still failed to reattach and fell too easily into other's hands. It was hard to tell if this was a battle or just another step towards war. All that was certain was that the veil was thin indeed. When puppet's marched, it was at the behest of other forces at play. Mycroft was wary indeed as to what power was slipping in to snip his lines of power away.


	5. Chapter 5

John was very glad to have friends who worked in the research facility. It had always been a valuable asset to him in the past to be on good terms with the people he and Sherlock often worked with. It helped to be of an amiable disposition in the first place but the perks were much further reaching than having someone available for a quick, occasional chat. Friends didn't let little things like bureaucracy get in the way and considered need-to-know items pertinent to share if they involved topics of personal interest. By all accounts by which John had ever learned weigh another person's merit, Mary Morstan was a very good friend indeed. And for the first time in his life, John had absolutely no concerns in introducing another human being to Sherlock Holmes.

Mary had admitted from the start to having watched their dreams with fascination. It was data, just electric pulses, so in a way it made sense that people could observe the dreams from the point of view of a dreamer, but it was strange to conceive of another person having memories of intimate moments within their own, vicarious experience. Like being a character in a show. John was her favorite character, and she liked to switch between his and Sherlock's points of view to get to know him better. It was a beautiful love story, she said, even though John did not remember it quite in that same way. He remembered running a lot. Fighting. Laughing like idiots. More running. She remembered eye contact, conversations without words, unconditional trust and the lovers' sphere of influence where there was only the concept of 'ours'. John remembered it too when she put it that way. And for whatever reason, it earned her the story of before they went to sleep-of many stories dating back to the real moments they'd shared before the disease and the odyssey they'd embarked on afterwards. No television or movies save for what existed in the time before, other people's dreams and stories were the only source of entertainment for those whose purpose was to work while others slept. Mary was a sponge for every detail John could part with in the tale of himself and Sherlock Holmes. And for John, Mary kept his mind off the unpleasantness of being a test subject when he knew she'd be there in some capacity when all was said and done. She was the best part of being awake-nice to look at, great listener, and in general best described as 'frustrated'. And the only thing she wanted from him, more than anything else, was to finally find out what their first kiss was like and if the stories she'd enjoyed had a happy ending.

As tended to happen, John didn't have to look for her-she was already waiting. Just outside the patient cells, white coat on with an orange pen sticking out of her breast pocket, Mary stood in denim and cream with the nervous smile of a fan on her face as she waited for them to exit the secure area. She was left handed like him and preferred orange ink so the stains on the sides of her hand didn't show as obviously. John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock would deduce as much or put the colored ink down to her being a woman with his usual biased filter.

"I want you to meet someone," John prefaced as he held open the last door, pushing up against it to let Sherlock go first.

Sherlock frowned, looking at their welcome party with mixed annoyance and confusion. It soon faded under a thin veil of condescending compliance that could only mean one thing: prey. She was a source of information, someone to interrogate, something to disassemble to see if it contained the pieces he needed. John wasn't going to tell him not to but he'd be damned if he let that be all she was. He gave him a warning look which was received, understood, and with a short nod accepted. It was good to know some things never changed even when given all the time in the world to do so.

"This is Mary," he said, stepping out to put a hand to her arm, gesturing for her to be accepted in all the normal, observable ways he knew. "She works on the computer systems here. Well, just about anything with an OS, anyway. Mary, this, as you know, is Sherlock."

Mary smiled brightly, inclining her head in greeting. "It's very nice to finally meet you," she said, her hand coming up to push her blond hair behind her right ear. "I guess a 'good morning' is in order. Hope you're feeling well."

Sherlock arched his left brow but did not voice whatever thought had just popped into his mind on the back of the deductions he'd very quickly made. "All things considered," he answered, standing tall. "I'm going to need a laptop or computer access of some variety. I assume you can facilitate this?"

"Uh, not really. I can show you to the library if you want a book, though."

"No book is going to contain the information I need," the detective clarified, looking somewhat affronted that she seemed to think he wouldn't ask for exactly what it was he required. John pursed his lips, looking down at the floor for a second to try and weather the best course through what was assuredly going to be a combative mood. Things had changed-that was an obvious fact. They'd gotten used to a far bit of changes on the road but they weren't the same as on the inside. Salvation had a price and seemingly minor restrictions like technology use were among them.

Mary pulled a face that mirrored John's in sentiment but animated itself with her personality. "I'm sorry. It's just not possible. If anything happened to the Ark systems, we'd all be as good as dead. Problem with a single mainframe set-up is you've got a central bank that can be susceptible to attacks and data corruption if you get too many users on board," she explained with the granted wisdom to offer reasons to save time on his asking. "Your brother has access, not sure if that helps, but outside plugging you back in, there's just no way. Not that there's much there you'd be interested in, honestly. We're down to basic systems with video conferencing and e-mail for the higher ups. What you remember of the internet was wiped years ago to eradicate any threat of system viruses." Mary shrugged apologetically then gave an easy smile, apples of her cheeks round and pronounced. "Bet they wish it was that easy in the real world."

"From what I hear, they're not exactly of the opinion it isn't."

Mary sobered at Sherlock's retort, a guilty masque falling over her face as she fell back into her role as technician and left attempts at being personable aside. "Sorry. Right." She held her clipboard closer to her chest, giving John a somewhat guilty glance that was as much a shared wince as an apology.

John nodded. He understood. "You don't think there's any way you could get your hands on some medical records, do you? Files, just... any sort of thing related to, uh.. well, us." he asked.

"I already owe Jeremy a couple favors. I can try and see if I can owe him a few more. Can't really promise anything, though. Security's likely to be a bit more extensive for a while."

Because of Sherlock. Because one of the diseased got loose in a secured area. Because anything could have happened. John frowned at the thought though Sherlock hardly seemed phased or at all concerned for the people who had had to calm him down and the scare it must have caused them.

"Nevermind all that," he said dismissively, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm better off just speaking to the doctors myself."

Mary looked at the floor with raised brows and a further frown. "That I can't help you with. They're in a quarantine branch all their own. Jeremy might be able to get me some pathology reports, raw data mostly, but you're not even eligible for the kind of clearance you're talking about."

Sherlock scowled, never a big fan of the word 'no'. "Other than my brother, who is?"

"Um... it starts and ends at about that level. Chapman's the only other person I can think of-he's not exactly the PM but until we resettle London, he's basically in charge. He'd have access to everything." She pushed her hair behind her ear again, relaxing once more with the ease of the familiar.

Chapman was not one of John's favorite people. They'd never met but that hardly mattered. John knew whose name was on the document that demanded the use of the collars. "He's not exactly the kind of bloke who accepts invitations," John added as he cleared his throat, suddenly rather aware of the temperature of the metal around his neck and uncomfortable with the way the recycled air chilled it as his throat flexed against the band with a swallow. "Are you sure we can't just ask Mycroft?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He won't help. Being implicated in our task is counter-productive to his own gains. Where will I find Chapman?"

"You'll have to put in a request with his office. You're not going to find him just out and about." Mary pulled her clipboard down and made a short note, the orange pen finding its way to paper from her pocket. She smiled. "John and I know his secretary. Might be we can persuade her to put you on the books."

Whether Sherlock knew it or not yet, it was the best they were going to get. John nodded, taking over in light of his companion's quiet displeasure as Sherlock scowled at the ceiling with a prodigious eye roll of exasperation. "Thanks, yeah. Tell Diana there's two weeks worth of pudding in it for her."

"Sure thing." Mary took further note of the offer on the table, smiling under the shadow of her short nose. Note written and pen tapping idly between forefinger and middle, Mary smiled at John and gave his arm a pat, the conversation having reached its natural end. "See you at dinner?" she asked with an expectant smile.

John nodded, rocking back on his heels. Sherlock had checked out of the conversation, filtering the pleasantries entirely as his mind worked on whatever he felt more worth his time. That was fine. There really wasn't a need for him to pay attention to meal plans and goodbyes.

Mary edged in towards him with her shoulder, voice lowered and eyes growing sharper with intent. "Gonna have time for me?"

"... Maybe. We'll see." John cleared his throat again, feeling his skin burn slightly under his collar as he fought against a blush. He knew what she wanted but there was a time and place for such things and neither were when Sherlock, checked out or not, was standing there in shared company.

She tapped her pen against the end of John's nose, his eyes crossing with a scowl. "Don't hold out on me, John Watson," she warned with a sing-song lilt. "I don't do this all for free."

John put both hands against her leaning shoulder and pushed her gently to walk away. "Yeah, yeah. Timing. Go away," he muttered, not discontinuing the directed shove until her feet joined in and helped to take her further away from the two with backwards steps.

She winked at him, playfulness exuding from her confident frame in more ways than just her sighed laugh. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'll see you both later," she called, turning away as she proceeded to leave towards the interior rings of security that guarded the Ark servers and heaven knew what else.

John cleared his throat again-god, people were going to think he was choking-and pointed out towards the lit exit of the exterior laboratory space. There was a whole tour waiting for them to go through and the sooner they started the better. Sherlock was looking at him though, one brow raised above an iris surrounded in white before his lips pulled into a shrug and his feet set to put distance between the conversation and his own deductions. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. John quickly set a pace to keep him at his side and shook his head with a steadfast scowl.

"You know, it says a lot about what you think of me if you can actually think that after the last half hour," John said by way to scold him, not having to be any more specific than that for all the certainty he had-tempered in annoyance as it was.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, face calm and uninterested now that he had seemingly processed his conclusions to a comfortable state. He held open the last of the secured doors then started off at a more than leisurely pace once joined on the other side. "Sex isn't indicative of emotional attachment," he said, heels clicking against the clinically clean floor tiles as the hospital-like atmosphere continued on even outside the laboratory with interior windows and perpetual white surroundings.

"It's also not something you do when you have an understanding with someone else."

Sherlock's lips pursed in contradiction. "I wouldn't exactly call it an understanding," he said, perhaps a hint of jealousy lingering in his baritone but for all the world considerably unconcerned with the idea that John could have been entertaining bed fellows while he slept and dreamed. Still giving John an out-or worse, permission.

It was a little infuriating. It had been three years ago but John still remembered vividly the moment they'd shared in the Wilkes' kitchen, Sherlock's damaged face and unfocused eyes lilting towards his as he sank low against the kitchen counter to meet him halfway. John remembered wishing it had all happened sooner, that he had been given the chance to realize how precious a thing Sherlock was to lose and what that loss felt like to his heart-the physical pain of it that did not care how much emotional distance he'd tried to live by. He'd always loved Sherlock and had always tried not to linger on how much or to what extent. The old adage that one does not know what they have until it's taken away had long since passed the test of time as truer words than casually spoken. And of course Sherlock loved him. No questions asked or confirmation needed. But in a way, Sherlock was right: sex did not require love anymore than love required sex. John could love Sherlock and still sleep with women-hypothetically speaking only; John could not fathom a romantic relationship in which heart, body and mind were satisfied by different people. Sherlock wasn't saying he doubted that John loved him, simply that he was not entirely convinced of the level at which that love fell. John's attempts at flirting had proved to be disastrous, but Sherlock hadn't discourage physical contact in the way he had kind comments and confessions. As far as John was concerned, he hadn't misinterpreted that almost-kiss from three years before, nor the kiss from minutes past. Sherlock was just being careful, like always, and reluctant to be the first to make confessions or concessions about the nature of their relationship.

For being one of the bravest men John had ever known, he could be a bit of a coward at times.

"I am showing you to my room where I intend to ask you to stay with me instead of taking a separate suite all your own. It has a table, a chair, and a full-sized bed," John listed, eyes always looking ahead for an unintended audience but voice hardly softer than his normal tone. "Do I really need to explain to you what I am asking or do we have an understanding?"

Sherlock paused only for a moment, a deep intake of air punctuating the quiet before his lips started moving on nonsense again. "Well, it certainly makes things easier to collaborate on when we have a shared living space. Wouldn't have to worry about you not opening your door if I need to use you as a sounding board."

"It's not Baker Street. One room, one bed. _Do we have an understanding_?"

With his gaze set in front of them as he lead Sherlock down the white, empty halls, John could not see whatever expressions Sherlock was making outside of the brief glimpses of it reflected in the panes of glass that they passed. He was quiet, though, for longer than he thought he should be. Did he really not know? Did he not want to? John felt his skin grow warm again as the latter thought developed further in a worry. It wasn't a condition, it wasn't absolutely necessary, he'd just thought-

"I don't want to be your 'boyfriend'," Sherlock said at last, his reflection's eyes looking sideways down at John. "Makes it sound like we're eleven. Small point but I'd really rather not use the word."

John's fleeting heart-attack jumbled its rhythm into a joyful skip. "Sure thing. Partners?"

"Mm. Tolerable."

"Left or right side of the mattress?"

"Center. Never shared."

"You're on the right, then."

"Fine."

"Happy?" John asked, feeling his own smile stuck to his face and not missing in the least the glimpses of amusement in Sherlock's as he chanced a glance upwards.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've got poison strapped to my neck so I can be killed remotely, I'm trapped in a underground bunker, there are political factions that want me dead, and by virtue of existing I am ineligible to get my hands on the information I need through conventional means."

"Yeah. Me too," John said, hands in his pockets as he continued to fail to remove the smirk from his face. "So that's a yes, then?"

He chuckled, giving rise to a few notes from John as a sense of strange contentment seemed to emanate along side their predicament rather than in spite of it. They lived for this. They loved this. And it was certainly worlds better than waking up in a boring world with no problems left to solve.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Somewhere out there in that dead, desolate world, someone was going to be very sorry they'd kept them alive after all this time. He was certain of it.


	6. Chapter 6

The bed was smaller than it had sounded. Despite hearing the word "double", it seemed Sherlock's brain had processed instead the amount of space he believed they would each want for themselves and imagined something far more spacious. Not even a standard double-a small one. For a single occupant Sherlock imagined the designers of the Ark had thought themselves rather generous. For a shared bed it was simply... well, small.

The whole of the room was made with more of a functional mindset than one of comfort. The table was thin with only enough surface area to be made use of by the single occupant expected to sit in the single chair, both made of light wood, possibly birch, probably imitation. One could almost kick the bed or the chest at its end from the doorway. Sherlock estimated there to be between one hundred and fifty and two hundred square feet in total, most of which was taken up by what was still considered to be a small bed for two grown men to lay upon. He did not miss the presence of the camera situated in the corner of the room, encased in protective glass, with an unobstructed view of everything from the white duvet to the door. There was nothing there that said it was John's room, though; no personal touch. He supposed that made sense. They'd taken off with their things, never depositing them into the Ark before chasing off into the horizon for a fate improved from certain death. John was an occupant, not an owner. The place reeked of cleaners and stale, recycled air. Sherlock didn't like it. He'd never like it. The walls were far too white.

John immediately sat upon the bed, offering up most of the walking space for Sherlock's observation. In his blue and white checkered shirt and blue denim jeans, John was the only bit of color in the room which of course meant he was easier to track and observe from even the worst video resolution. Intention was easy to read in their surroundings. This was not to be a place of comfort nor a place of personal reprieve. This was a laboratory, not all that dissimilar from the one they'd left behind, and the tests and observations did not end behind closed doors.

"So, this is it," John said, face in no way trying to mask the fact that he knew it was hardly a point of pride. "They all look like this. Well, for our lot they do."

Sherlock nodded, taking his meaning. They weren't exactly residents so much as they were guests. "Nice that they don't even bother trying to hide the camera."

"No point, is there? Wouldn't really change anything if they did; you'd still know they were watching you. They watch everything. Not even our dreams are safe."

"Pardon?" Sherlock leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach as he looked down at his companion who was not at all unsuited to the task of inoculating him to their new surroundings. He'd already rather adequately explained the tit-for-tat society built up in the underground by his actions and interactions and his confidence gave assurance that their situation in and of itself was not dire despite the potential for issue looming ahead. Still, there were questions about the limitations of ethics in current scientific practices that hadn't come up in either observation or conversation. There were certain implications in John's statement that made Sherlock more than a little uneasy if it meant someone messing around in the palace of his mind.

John was hardly slow on the uptake. "Not now," he clarified, gesturing with palms out to stop that particular train of thought. "They didn't implant anything into our heads or something. I mean before. People... watch them. For fun. Like going to the pictures."

"Oh. Well, that explains it."

John grimaced slightly as he failed to follow unspoken leaps, brows burying his eyes in expressed confusion. "Explains... what? Mary?"

"Mm. Heterosexual women generally stare at my face while avoiding direct eye-contact for at least the first few minutes. Wide-spaced eyes, prominent cheekbones, usually takes a bit to decide if they find the proportions to their liking. She exhibited none of the signs of a first encounter but isn't on the medical staff so would not have a reason to have seen my face before-photos don't count. So she's already met me in her own way which would be impossible outside the explanation you've provided," Sherlock explained, never too humble to disguise his appreciation for his own visage amidst the knowledge he was just as likely to be considered horse-faced as he was pretty. He was rather pleased, in that respect, to have his own face back. Tremendous scarring would have required a new focus on discerning other people's moods and motives if there was a prominent reason for them to look away from him and avoid eye contact at all cost.

John smirked with the expected amount of second-hand embarrassment for Sherlock's aesthetic certainty. His nod said he agreed all the same though he rubbed nervously at the back of his neck, the metal collar clicking against the back of his nails. "Yeah, no, she's uh... she's not the only one but we were definitely her favorite. Little embarrassing to think of everything people have been able to see but uh... yeah. You can just assume nothing is sacred anymore."

Not necessarily. Sherlock pulled his lips into one corner of his mouth, eyebrows arching with dissension. "Any given day you spend the majority of it either asleep or engaged in mundane tasks so the probability of someone watching you at a time when you would prefer to believe you were alone is rather minimal."

"Yeah, no. She's already admitted to having watched me masturbate."

"She what?"

"Told me what she did afterwards, too. I am never shaking that woman's hand."

Sherlock made a concentrated effort to bring his brows back down from his hairline and set his lips into an accepting pout. "Noted," he said, with really nothing left to say to that end. That, in a way, explained the extreme familiarity and sexual tension even better than the assumption they'd actually slept together. Being trapped in a white box, underground for two years had certainly blurred some lines in regards to civilized and genteel conduct.

John's neck was flushed, the tip of his nose rosy, but with a cough he carried on. "But, um, yeah. With the right clearance anyone can watch. Mary's a tech so she can see whatever she wants but really everyone who has computer access has access to the main Ark hub thing. It's all connected to the same server or mainframe of whatever it's called."

Sherlock nodded, remembering Mary having said as much before. "You ever seen?" he asked instead. "She ever showed you?"

"Not interested, to be honest. Snooping's your brother's hobby; not mine." He pointed to the camera in the corner as explanation. Whether it was truly by Mycroft's design or not, the CCTV-type implications were justly similar. John sat back on his palms, kicking his shoes off at the end of he bed before pulling his black socked feet up against the duvet with legs crossed. "Can't say I really cared to see what you were getting up to without me," he shared, looking down at his discarded footwear as though it would remove the underlying query of what had happened and if he'd been missed.

Idiot. "Nothing extraordinary," Sherlock said, and left the honest answer of jumbled reality as an unnecessary fact. He wasn't there anymore, he was here. Dreams did not matter. What did matter was the lack of anything stimulating in the room. There was one book on the small table and apart from it nothing. They'd walked by workout facilities and communal dining areas but the sameness and whiteness of it all was numbing in its banality. Surely there was more to do than sit and rot in muted expectation. "So we just... stay in here?" he asked.

John's apologetic shrug and smile were not in the least comforting. "Bit like prison, I imagine. Plenty of time to better ourselves but not much room for application. Think I've read just about every book I managed not to read while in school and I can do about fifty push-ups before my body says stop. It's dull. It's very, very dull. And then every now and then someone wants to draw your blood, poke your bits, and make you run on a treadmill for an hour so they can monitor you under stress. Almost started to look forward to those. Still predictable but at least it's something." He scooted back on the bed even further, retreating to the left side as he left his legs now stretched out in front of him. "I believe you've got an appointment with them tomorrow, actually. Baseline stuff. So, ya know.. eat well and get a good night's sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sleep. I think I've done enough of that for a lifetime."

"Yeah, you think that. Then you get so bored a bit of a kip sounds like a fantastic way to pass the time."

"We do have a case," Sherlock reminded him, almost insulted by the idea that they had nothing better to do than nap through the day like big cats.

John shrugged, tucking in his feet once again to leave the other half of the mattress empty. "And we have to wait and see what Diana can do or if Mary can get us any files. This is the part where we wait."

He hated waiting. He hated their lack of agency. He hated the white walls and the tiny table and the one chair and the small bed. Did nothing in the Ark work the way it was supposed to or was it only in his own mind that some semblance of normal society would have been a good idea to maintain? Eggshell would have been better than ivory white. Marshmallow. Mocha foam. Muted beige.

"Come here."

Sherlock looked over at John who was patting against the empty spot on the duvet. "What, on the bed?" Stupid question.

"Yeah, on the bed."

"Why?"

John rolled his eyes with a head shake of exasperation. "Jurassic Park," he said with a tone to match his eyes.

It was an absurdly nonsensical statement to extend sarcastically. Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he tried to work out some possible code, thinking back to the film he'd only seen the once and admittedly hadn't exactly been paying attention to at the time. He hadn't been of a mindset to appreciate it above any greater determining factor that it was there and loud and didn't require any attention spared on his part. His thoughts had solely been on his future and in fear of what remained for John. In all honesty, he remembered nothing of it except for the soothing strokes against his skin and hair that helped to keep his stomach settled and his nerves-_Oh_. Jurassic Park. Right. He felt a scowl settle over his features as he grimaced at his friend. "I'm not scared," he corrected, though even as he said so he remembered his arms were wrapped around his own middle, hugged against his belly, and set to have them relax to his sides in what he hoped garnered no further attention.

John smiled gently, fluffing the pillow as he looked away. "Didn't say you were. Though frankly, this is all a lot to take in in one day and if you think I can't tell when you're stressed, you're an idiot. I'd offer you a cuppa but we're rationed so just trust me and get over here."

On the bed. With John. It was unavoidable having agreed to share the room and waiting until night hardly made a different when one lived underground and thus without sunlight-what time was it anyway?-but he wasn't tired. John didn't look tired. They were awake and in the middle of discussing... well, nothing anymore but they couldn't possibly have gone over everything there was to know about the Ark in just the time they'd spent. Not that there wasn't plenty of time to inquire more later but... well...

Sherlock stepped away from the wall and towards the bed only after it became apparent that his reluctance screamed of apprehension and anxiety, neither of which were quite true nor subjects of inquiry he wanted to pursue. He and John had spent a great deal of time together in the black SUV, sitting less than two feet apart, sometimes sleeping in the seats across from each other. He wasn't concerned about the intimacy of proximity or touch. Ancient conversations about 'personal bubbles' had been pointless lessons in why people needed their own space but he was beginning to reconsider that viewpoint when half a shared bed was not much more than the width of a man. He didn't bother taking his shoes off but instead sat and laid flat with a back far more stiff than he'd intended, staring at the ceiling.

"You going to relax or do I need to tell you to do that too?"

"Why are we laying in bed? Neither of us are tired," he argued, still looking straight up and managing to avoid all but John's shadow as he laid.

John leaned over and rolled him to his side, positioning him like a wire-framed doll till his face was towards him and his weight shifting forward to the point where only a simple lean would have him resting on his front. Done and pleased, though putting on airs of exasperation, John settled into the bed beside him, facing him, and curled his arm around his head where his hand could pass beneath his curls on a comfortable angle for repetitive strokes. Sherlock stared at John's metal collar with his jaw set in awkward discomfort for only a few moments before his gut seemed to settle with the dissipation of uncertainty. This was nice. This was easy. It wasn't nearly as claustrophobic as he'd imagined it would be to have his body right there, next to his, their breath shared and heat exchanged. John smelled of ozone-or perhaps it was the bed. Really, it didn't matter so much anymore so long as his fingers continued with their roll against his scalp.

"You're worse than a child sometimes, you know that?"

Sherlock hummed, letting his eyes fall closed. "Yes. Nails too if you're going to keep this up."

"Clipped most of that off but yeah, alright. Better?" he asked, the short whites of his nails providing slightly more stimulus as they were, indeed, short. But it was nice. Tension Sherlock hadn't remembered storing seemed to melt from him, cares lessened and apprehension gone as John's presence beside him faded from odd to preferred. Maybe he had been a little worried. Perhaps it all was a bit of a shock to wake up to. But of all the things that had changed between life, dreams and now, this moment felt like the biggest course correction of all. And it was pretty good. So at least there was that.

"If you need my help thinking things through, you let me know. Otherwise, I'm just going to stay like this for a bit," John whispered, his breath dry but inoffensive.

Sherlock nodded, his hand rising to rest against John's hip as he rather gave up the thought of thinking of anything for now as three years without touch beyond the stimulation of procedure and pain gave his brain a cease and desist in light of a reintroduction to pleasure. Three years in a bottle just to be trapped in a box, only this time no longer alone.

Maybe the bed wasn't too small, now that he thought about it. Maybe everything, just for now, was just right.


	7. Chapter 7

In the weeks since his brother's rather miraculous return to consciousness, Mycroft had observed far more about his sex life than he'd ever cared to know. The exact amount of knowledge he'd ever wanted to possess in relation to his brother's intimate exchanges was exactly zero, with allowance in decimals for the general knowledge that a partner existed and who they were. That it was John was hardly unexpected. While Mycroft had always been aware of his brother's infatuation, its presence in John had only been observed after their return to the Ark years past. But the fact still remained that he did not actively want to see what was on his computer screen or hear what was being played on the quietest audio setting he could still perceive voices at. There was nothing in the least incestuous or perverse in observing the two naked men in their room with the lights out, camera shifting to night vision to maintain constant vigil. This was work. This was necessary. This was curiosity of a completely unrelated and yet unfortunately associated nature. And it was a great shame that there were certain parts of his mind that, like his brother, he could not simply shut off.

Even in the darkness, most of their bodies beneath the covers, Mycroft could see everything. It was a horrendous byproduct of understanding people and, of course, the act as well. He watched playfulness which could have been innocent wrestling melt into kissing and tangled limbs. He watched bodies gain necessary distance and arms and hands fade from view. Tonight he bore witness to the rising tension in his brother's face that lingered in his brows and spread down through his neck as he left it exposed beneath a raised and hardened chin. John's mouth was against the skin there, hands long gone, his body convexed around the space between them. There was no need for deductive reasoning when it came to their shared moments, laying face to face with the blankets only serving to hide the details of their indiscretions. He could tell in the flex of a bicep or the arch of a back almost everything he really didn't want to know about what went on out of sight but hardly out of mind. Over the weeks he'd watched it escalate from short sessions of stress relief to longer nights with variety and rounds. They were like disgusting little boys in school who spent their nights fascinated by their own bodies and lacked the sense of dignity by which to opt not to explore the similarities and differences in the study of another's. Still, in some misguided and appalling way, it was... laudable. His brother was learning. He'd always been a sponge for knowledge and it seemed he'd finally found himself a tutor both skilled in the art and worthy of his attention. The screen went blank.

Mycroft scowled at the recurring fault. There it was again. That was it. That wasn't supposed to happen. Technical issues were a new and irritating occurrence that hadn't existed at all before Sherlock had awoken and now were almost assured. If the sheet threatened to fall, if the momentum began escalating, if positions changed in such a manner as to facilitate a much more explicit mental image, the screen would go black and not return until both subjects were sated and half asleep. It never happened on any other screen nor at any other time. These were not observations he felt needed to be shared with the technical department, however. Explaining why he had observed his baby brother having sexual encounters with his male lover on enough occasions to observe a pattern of camera failure was simply never going to happen. They'd make assumptions. There'd be talk. There was enough conversation centered around Sherlock Holmes as it was.

There was of course a perfectly reasonably reason but no one really cared to listen to those when there was the potential for scandal. He'd simply been browsing through the lines of video and come upon his brother and John in a heated moment sat upon the bed when he turned his eyes to their room. He'd only lingered out of parting curiosity as to where they'd procured certain medical grade semi-liquids to find the screen flash black as though the camera had been turned off. This, of course, wasn't possible. He'd flipped to other feeds, into hallways and vacant rooms, finding everything in working order. The fault was in their room alone. The worry of how it had happened was only marginally lesser to the concerns of sending someone down to see while knowing full well what was likely to be occurring. He thought to give them at least ten minutes of which apparently they only needed five-really, Sherlock, there were thirteen year old boys with better self control than that. The camera turned itself back on to the sight of parting kisses and an acquired flannel discarded to the floor as they retired under the sheets. There were no further incidents of camera malfunction until the next time he caught them in each other's arms. From them on, it was simply a matter of research to try and define the commonality and through it a cause.

At first he'd thought it a clever rouse meant to disguise whatever it was they were planning. No one would bother them if they presumed they were being intimate and so the blackout would give them the privacy required to work on whatever part of their plan for survival had a visual element. Mycroft knew they had a plan-neither of them were the type to accept death or another's authority graciously. It wouldn't do to bring attention to the error if it was manufactured for such a purpose so he took to the research himself. But the flush of their skin, the sweat marks on the sheets, the looks of sated exhaustion and, just once, the bit of semen in Sherlock's hair he seemed to have been the only one to notice, pointed to there being no attempt at misdirection at all. They were delinquents. Whatever system error that caused the camera to die before their own little deaths was likely as unknown to them as it remained to Mycroft. Someone didn't want him or anyone else to see those private times of shameful, lustful fulfillment.

That in itself was an interesting thought. They had logs of activity, ways to discover who was doing what while where and with who. Nothing happened in the Ark that Mycroft could not see, no trail existed that he could not follow. But here there was nothing. He'd thought it might be the Morstan woman that John tended to hang around but had seen her sleeping peacefully in her own bed while the camera was out in the other. It was a mystery and sadly, due to circumstance, was required to remain that way. Mycroft could only imagine the ridiculous speculations that might be made to excuse the technical error if brought to light. Maybe when two diseased people were in the heat of lovemaking, they generated enough static electricity to cause a momentary shortage in technological equipment. Maybe they had super powers. Maybe the camera across from the lovers' bed was bashful. He didn't care to subject them to any further study that might come about by fear and confusion. Nothing would put a hamper on their chances of developing some manner of salvation quite like increased visibility. So Mycroft kept an eye on them himself and made note of each occurrence; a spreadsheet devoted to the occasions and duration of baby brother's sexual congress.

Stomach sour and bourbon at hand, Mycroft took a steady drink and thought without hyperbole that this was, indeed, a special hell


	8. Chapter 8

There were some things John should have known ahead of time that he'd simply ignored and not listened to, little voices that spoke and were quickly silenced because he worried too much or he was just being indecisive. He should have listened. Having Sherlock awake was literally a dream come true and he'd never been a fan of letting the man die peacefully in his sleep-it just wasn't _him_. This should have been better. Sherlock being awake should have meant that things would improve and gears would start turning. It didn't. All it seemed to mean was that if John wasn't careful he had a front row seat to watching Sherlock Holmes tear himself apart from the inside out due to stagnation and limitless limitations.

John kissed his forehead as he slept as a small consolation to the maelstrom trapped within. He'd known what Sherlock was like without a case, having witnessed the variety of sulks or erratic tension that filled the detective to the breaking point. He'd seen the destructive wake of boredom in the holes in the walls and heard the cries for stimulation in the awful pull of the bow against the strings. Getting him a case that utilized his talents always brought him back and re-energized him above the slip of desperation. Their case was caught up in bureaucracy, though, and no one had bothered to get the man a violin. He was trapped on the launch pad, grounded on the runway, suspended high before a fall. He didn't want books and could care less about making friends. Guilty as it made John feel, there was only one thing he could think of which might give him pause and offer something else to think about while obsessions drove him mad.

He wished guilt weren't the prevailing emotion that extended past the acts. Even if the worry for sanity was higher than the pull of lust, the underlying motivation was still and always had been love. He didn't want to see him hurt himself because they'd trapped him in a cage. So if he undressed him because his eyes were wild with frustration, if he kissed him because he was shouting at the chair, if he pulled him to bed because he'd all put clawed his own hair out, it might not have been because he was still the most amazing human being John had ever known, but if he didn't he was quite sure that soon nothing could temper that storm. Sex was, regrettably, a tool. All they had was each other now and so, well, what else was there to do?

Sherlock knew. He'd known even the first time when the awkward transition between all but screaming and being kissed up against the wall caught him by surprise. John could almost imagine those first thoughts that must have come to mind-questions about whether being insulted and shouted at turned John on or if there was anything possibly attractive about flared nostrils and a red face. Sherlock too often took his anxiety out on John and it needed to stop, needed to be redirected, and with one hand down his pants, John very quickly found a way to make him stop, recenter, and fight his way back from mindless frustration into a place that knew that John was a friend. He didn't apologize for the way he was and John didn't ask him to. He only asked that he trust him and let John take all his tension and anxiety and focus it on something within their grasp.

It was a reset. Press the right buttons, elicit the right responses, and Sherlock could be taken from level ten-brink of insanity-to level two-mildly inconvenienced. Used to be a handjob could birth stars in his eyes and wipe his mood clear of the angry tension. That hadn't lasted long. The predictability of movements, the sameness of sensation, he'd fall from ten to a six instead and wake up broody and annoyed. So they moved on to more. They did things John had never in his life considered doing before and yet found himself only too willing to try if it meant he'd have his Sherlock back in the end. A cock in the mouth was a small concession against madness. On reflection, it wasn't even really that bad when the man it belonged to made some of the most drool-worthy sounds and ear-ringing expletives as he arched against the sheets. It was an odd arrangement that always seemed to start out as rehearsed and scheduled but at least it melted into desire before the end. He didn't like that it had to be this way but if someone had a better idea for how to shock the mind and senses of the most brilliant man he'd ever known, John was more than willing to listen and give it a try.

In the meantime, he didn't mind in the least waking up with Sherlock naked in the bed beside him, hair in complete disarray and slumped with his face nearly planted into the pillow in sweet exhaustion and the buzz of serotonin. Even if Sherlock didn't consider the idea of dying a virgin worth his time or concern, John was glad to not carry the regret of not having been like this with his boyfriend partner if things ended badly and they were sent to their deaths. The more red tape they could not cross, the more certain that seemed to be. Mary had gotten them medical reports but they hadn't been at all useful in the way Sherlock had hoped they might be. He wasn't allowed samples. He wasn't allowed to borrow lab equipment. All he had was notes on cellular regeneration and two years of hand copied study material on the various things they'd done to him to try and find a cure. John wanted to punch Mycroft for those. He'd seen cadavers treated with more humanity than that. The ends justified all, he supposed, but the means still tasted like bile.

John tightened his arm around Sherlock, knowing he'd be annoyed if he were awake and knew the thoughts that were running through his head. He didn't like being saved when he saw himself as a savior. He didn't like people being concerned because that meant he was human. John pulled him close and raised himself up to bury his nose in his hair, Sherlock's head nearly tucked behind his like a shielded talisman. He would protect this man. Always. Whether the stubborn arse wanted him to or not.

Sherlock slept only a few minutes more before they both grabbed their things and headed down to the communal showers. There was only one other man in the test subject group, the other three being women, and so they rarely ran into anyone else when they visited the gents. All showers, no baths. It was a small thing to be annoyed with but Sherlock tended to hone in one small things to obsess over when he was still stuck on the real issues at hand. He was at a three, then. Still not too bad. John took the shower stall beside him, it's blue tiles lined in impeccably bleached white grout lines, and washed the traces of sweat from his body with a rag and a squirt of liquid soap.

"It's all tied up in the politics," Sherlock said above the rush of the overhead spray. His voice echoed well enough that even at his usual tone, which blended in with the rumble of water, he could be heard by less than shouting.

John let the water beat against his back as he kept his ears out from the spray. "That isn't news, Sherlock."

"I mean, that's where we'll find our clues. Pretty much all we've managed to do is eliminate our own country as being behind this. Even if it was produced by the military and not us, the fact that the military was willing to hand me over rather than make up a story to protect their own interests lends itself to this not being something anyone in the UK expected let alone orchestrated."

He nodded, looking down at the white tiled floor where he could see Sherlock's shadow and the swirl of water spiraling down towards the drain. No suds. He'd gotten sidetracked. "So the ones responsible are probably the ones who most want us dead," John guessed, following along with the standard case inquiries in which he did his best to prove he wasn't stupid and could follow along with Sherlock's own deductive leaps.

Except he'd gotten it wrong. "Not necessarily," Sherlock corrected. "Even my brother thinks we're a threat to the world and may ultimately have to be put down. No, it's the ones who most want to control us. It will probably be one of our greatest defenders, actually. Someone who thinks they can fix this. They thought they could play god once before and whose to say they actually learned their lesson?"

John nodded his head, sinking his neck beneath the pounding water as it massaged against an ache. "So we're looking to expose people who _don't_ want to kill us. Doesn't exactly sound like its in our best interest, Sherlock."

"We are going to die, John."

It took a second for John to decide if the echo had stolen the final sound in the word 'aren't' and distorted his words into a fatalistic prediction rather than words of well-meant comfort. But he hadn't misheard. Sherlock felt sure that they would die. It wasn't new news but it still felt dry in his throat as John swallowed. "I know," he said, happy for the wall that kept them separate for the moments of blatant honesty sometimes offered up in blindness. "You're trying to solve our murder. And if Diana pulls through for us, I think you will."

"_My_ murder. Yours is technically suicide."

John chuckled quietly, not a sound made as he smiled at the gallows humor offered through the tiled wall. "Well, if Sherlock Holmes is going to jump off a bridge, there'd better be someone there to yell at him on the way down."

Sherlock's gentle laugh was louder and fell in synch with the beating water that crashed against their flesh and floor. He didn't say anything further but the water at his feet still ran clear. And that was fine. They all needed those private moments to be okay with the thought of losing everything and realizing the limit of power in ones hands. John quickly finished washing his hair and turned the water off slowly so Sherlock would expect the sudden loss of extra sound.

"I'm going back to the room," John told him as he wrapped the ivory towel around his waist and pulled the dark green dressing gown secure around his body. He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need one. Despite every assurance that Sherlock needed him to remain sane, the hero did not take comfort in admitting failure to that which he'd pledged to protect. Everyone needed to be alone now and then. John waited only so long as to know that Sherlock had heard him then walked back to their room to wait some more.


	9. Chapter 9

"Jesus _Christ_!" John shouted as the chair flew across the room-minor feat-at the behest of Sherlock's foot. The furniture bounced back nearly as far, tipping to the floor less than twelve inches from where it'd started with an echoing _thunk_ against the polished tile. Sherlock stared down at it, fists balled at his sides as he considered giving it another go. It wasn't likely to break the second time around either but perhaps if he picked it up and smashed it against the table instead he'd get a better result.

John was up and off the bed, though. Book forgotten. His lips formed a small 'o' as he breathed out in one long sustained breath, his nerves obviously unsettled by the sudden but short journey of the ridiculous chair. Good. He should be unsettled. Even as he tilted his chin down to better glare up at Sherlock over the ridge of his own brows, John was not nearly unsettled enough. Sherlock shoved the chair away again with his heel and John grabbed at him to keep him still.

"What the _hell_ set you off this time?" he shouted, all but yanking Sherlock away from the chair as though the two might continue their brawl. His ears were red but his face hadn't yet caught up with the burning flush of anger. "We've talked about this!" His voice carried a hint of warning which only caused Sherlock's mood to darken still. He smacked John's hand away. John paused for only a second then grabbed his arm again, harder, fingers curling into the muscle of his bicep as he maintained control over whether or not Sherlock was allowed to turn away. "You have _got_ to get this under control. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting them linger on the ceiling before casting an irritated glance into the glaring blue eyes that held his. "Oh, no, have I made the good doctor mad?"

He shook his head. "We're not doing this, Sherlock. You are not going to stand around and make a scene just to try and get a rise out of me. I'm not playing that game with you."

"No, of course not," Sherlock baited, jerking once more against the hard grip against his arm. "You'd rather be playing doctor."

John let him go but did not move, the knuckles of his hand still white as he pointed up at him in warning. "Don't. Don't even start. We both know what you're doing so just stop."

"Or what? You'll kiss me again? Take me right here against the wall? Shall I get the lights, Oh Grand Placater, or would that be too aggressive for you?"

Sherlock enjoyed watching the muscles in John's jaw flex, his lips roll from a thin line into a disgruntled pout, that small, almost frightening smile crawling across his features like an ill omen. That had done it. John's fuse was easy to light and it burned fast and bright once the sparks caught into a flame. He wore his insecurities like a cardigan, matching perfectly the reds of rage, the greens of envy and the yellow cowardice of sentiment. He burned with it. False hope, lies, stupidity-didn't John _see_? Why didn't he see? It was so obvious; so _there_. Mundane and boring and _soothing_ and dying and bitter and nothing but white noise-so overwhelmingly white-now red and green and yellow and on fire.

John took a step back, arm raised and pointing not at Sherlock but past him. "Walk out that door," he ordered with a voice that was gruff from the exertion of control.

Control? Control. Control over what? Sherlock looked at the door with a shift of his eyes but did not move a step. "Or what?"

"No 'or what'. Walk out that door."

The commanding tone was humorous. Did he really think he could just tell him what to do and he would do it? Mycroft had been trying to gain that sort of power for years. It didn't exist. It didn't work on him. Why should Sherlock care what anyone else wanted? He leaned forward rather than stepped away, his face looming closer in as much a challenge as he cared to extend to the stupid little man who didn't know anything but always acted like he knew best.

John was always full of surprises.

Sherlock's face nearly smashed against the table as John pushed him down against the surface, arm pulled hard behind his back as he neutralized any chance of a struggle in a swift and almost elegant disarming motion. You could take the man out of the army... His shoulder socket burned in pain, fingers rigid behind his back where they dared not flex against the pull. John was using nearly all his weight to keep him pinned, not playing, not amused. His grip around his wrist was warm and dry. He did not bother to lean in and speak into his ear but instead kept still and strong, not bargaining anything for the sure pin. He spat as he spoke.

"You don't want to take some time and get yourself together, fine. You want to act like a jackass, great. But you know damn well what will happen if they find out you can't take being cooped up down here. So whatever this is, whatever's got you wound up, you'd better either deal with it or walk it off because I am not here for you to take this shit out on when you're angry." He gave his arm a hard shove, just short of the force required to snap something or dislocate it. This was restraint-he was always so good at restraint-too good-not necessary half the time and dear god why did he never bother to just stay angry? Wasn't enough wrong? Wasn't is warranted? What was it like in a mind that could bottle up stagnation and feign sanity so well when there was so much rage under the surface just waiting for an excuse.

John let go and Sherlock slowly righted himself, rolling his shoulder to ease the stress now tensioned in its socket.

John took several steps back, fingers flexing, chest expanding on deeper and more frequent breaths. "You're getting worse," he said, his posture still osculating between the offensive and defense. He pointed to the camera. "They're going to notice. And if they take you away from me, that's it. They're either going to have to drug you to within an inch of consciousness or kill you. That's what you're doing to yourself right now. You are pissing me off and you are killing yourself."

Sherlock could not contain the chuckle that floated from his ensnared throat. "Far be it for me to chose my method of execution," he mused, rolling his neck as the tension boiled higher.

When John's fist hit the table, the only thought through his mind was 'hypocrite' seeing as when he did it to chairs it was something of a big deal. Chairs and walls and doors and the broken skin on his own knuckles from the shower tiles. Let it hurt, let it bleed, let it be red and wash away the white. How could John stay white? How could he relax on a bed with a book and blend in against the world that was a box, a prison, a cage. That wasn't John, _this_ was John. This was the sort of fury that smiled like the reaper then took possession of ones soul.

"I have not followed you this far to watch you kill yourself!" he shouted, the visions of lonely roads and sleepless night accompanying his moist shout. "Yeah, I get it, we're fucked, we're going to die! I am past being afraid of dying! The only thing I'm afraid of losing is the time we have and honestly, I don't even want to be in the same room with you right now!"

"Then leave!" Sherlock ordered, knowing two could play at that game.

"This is my room!"

"It's my room too!"

"I know! And what a shame it is that Sherlock Holmes has _never learned to respect his things_!" People, friends, chairs, lovers? John took another deep breath, his eyes black with anger. "What do you _want_?" he asked.

Sherlock's mind scrambled for anything that made sense. He didn't want John to be boring. He didn't want John to be happy being boring. He didn't want to be the only one feeling this way. The weak one, the failure, the most unfit to survive in a climate of the unchanging. "I don't know!" he shouted, hands raking through his hair as his thoughts curled in similar patterns like shoots from the soil of his mind. He didn't want to be like this. He'd never learned how to not be like this.

"You want your own room? Your own space? Is that going to help?"

"Are you threatening me?"

John shook his head, the physical signs of anger lessening though his eyes still held their glare. "_I'm asking you_. I won't take it personally if you need to have your own space. And if you'd rather stay with me, that's still fine. But you do not treat 'us' like ammunition. I am trying to help you and you either need to help me or let me but you do not start shit with me like that." He swallowed the lump in his throat and with it the last of his intentions to pursue any sort of answer. Sherlock was rather sure John wouldn't like the answer anyway. The soldier exhaled deeply, shaking his hands out again before inclining his head towards the door with a thin lipped expression. "You want to play chess?"

"No." Sherlock let his head hang, his body feeling heavy now that fight or flight had succumbed instead to sink or flounder. "You're terrible at it. And I always beat you at cards."

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm ready for sex."

John's brows knitted then fell away from his nose as he slowly shook his head. "Well, I'm not. I'm still mad at you. Let's hit the cafe. Maybe after."

Sherlock breathed and nodded, standing up straight as something of himself seemed to find its place before the gates of madness. When had John reading become such a violent trigger of unease and dissatisfaction? He didn't care to know what it said about him that he could not be pleased John was adapting and instead resented his quiet submission into a world of endless stagnation. He wanted the angry soldier raising hell at his side, not the careful doctor making sure life was enjoyed if it couldn't be fought for. Sometimes. Right now he'd be satisfied with the lover who didn't ask him to apologize but understood he was sorry anyway. He wasn't... he wasn't going to let John down. He was going to try harder.

How many times had he said that?

John waited at the door for him, the trip to the cafe as much desired for a snack as it was for the walk itself. John adapted through physical exertion. It centered him. It cleared his head. Sometimes it helped Sherlock too.

Sherlock waved his hand towards the wall where the light switch was located as he followed through the door. "Lights," he called, and the room fell to darkness behind him as John watched with wonder from the hall.

"How did you do that?" he asked, gesturing with his chin.

Sherlock closed the door. "Do what?"

"Turn the lights out without using the switch."

"It's voice activated."

John frowned, shaking his head slowly. "No, it isn't. This place was built in the 1940's; Mary's always complaining about how old the systems here are."

Sherlock shrugged, stepping out in front to lead the way. "Coincidence, then. I'll tell maintenance the bulb's gone out," he said, even as he felt a quiet surge of _something_ in his gut that said the universe was rarely so convenient.

Besides, he was rather sure he'd adjusted the lights by command before.


	10. Chapter 10

Strictly speaking, it was not a good idea to be found wandering the Ark halls outside his prescribed areas. Risks to his health were not in the least a concern but the risks to his position in the current political climate were. Mycroft was better off having the absolute minimum of interaction with his brother if he was to maintain a distance that would do credit to his unbiased opinions. But Sherlock Holmes was on Chapman's schedule and the man seemed curiously pleased. Whatever course of action meant to put them together, Sherlock had to find another way. Chapman was not to be trusted and certainly not to be interfered with. He was Mycroft's problem and his to undo. A meeting with Sherlock was simply out of the question.

He was sitting at the table when they came back from the cafeteria. It seemed the best time to drop by, knowing what they were like. It gave him the upper hand, making their territory his. Sherlock's cat-like bristling from the moment they stepped inside the crowded room was proof enough of the effectiveness of the tactic though John simply looked confused above the mild tell of surprised curiosity. Mycroft wasn't welcome but that was hardly new. He didn't make social calls so, of course, his presence could only mean a handful of things to them. He smiled slightly, tapping his fingertips against the tabletop as he enjoyed a few seconds of the underlying panic in the air. "No decisions have been made," he said, not even attempting to hide the pique of pleasure that existed in knowledge.

John visibly relaxed, scowling in disapproval as he edged around and towards the bed where the three of them could converse in a little triangle of bodies rather than stacked around the door. Sherlock stood unchanged with challenge still stiff in his joints as he made sure the door closed behind him, his eyes never leaving his brother's. "Why are you here, then?" he asked, then, as though his tongue had gone out of turn, his eyes rolled and he fell back against the wall with arms crossed over his chest in contention. "Ah, of course. You've heard."

Mycroft smiled a little at the misstep, his fingertips tapping once more. "Of course I have. Diana has many good qualities but silence is not one of them." He stood up, both signaling that his intentions were not to linger and that there was to be no argument against his shared judgement. He wasn't tall enough to eclipse his brother but what he lacked in superior height he more than made up for in years of conditioning. He looked down his nose at his younger sibling, his impeccable manner elevating him far above their equal stature. "Find another way," he commanded, disguising concern under a veil of contempt.

Sherlock forced a smile in kind. "If that's your way of saying you're willing to offer up information, be my guest. Otherwise, you'll have to excuse us." He whipped around Mycroft, steeling his way towards the table and chair to best abandon the walkway towards the exit. "We've got far more important things to be getting on with than entertaining dignitaries."

Mycroft sighed, shoulders dropping. He'd never been fond of the contrary. "You know I can't. But Chapman has more to gain from you than you do from him. _I_ will handle him in my own way."

"Your way's too slow."

"Politics, brother mine, is rarely a realm for those who demand speed of action." Mycroft didn't bother glancing over at John. John was not going to be his ally in this particular battle-not at this juncture. Not yet. Maybe in the end if he had the sense to remember who was in charge and who was generally right about these things. Until then he was just a blue lump in his peripheral vision while Sherlock leaned his hip against the table in a facade of ease.

"You want me working on this but you don't want me to interview the only other person who has the information I need. What's this really about?" Sherlock asked, always hinting but falling short of grasping.

Mycroft rather missed the occasion for the use of an umbrella. He was far too young for a cane but missed the prop at his side to lean against in disinterest. "You presume far too much. Chapman is a puppet figure-he knows nothing. And thus he will act foolishly and in ways that I cannot counter. If you seek Chapman, you will be outside my power to protect," he cautioned, adding to his case in details he knew would capture at least one of them. However, it was just as important to counter misconceptions for the other. He frowned, his forehead lengthening with a sigh. "Sherlock, if you can manage to orchestrate timed blackouts with the surveillance equipment, getting access to the computer systems should be a fairly simple operation."

"Timed blackouts?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, looking down at John who was perched on the edge of the bed with annoyance. "Let's not with the whole feigning ignorance. No one else knows. Would be nice if you would put such resources towards more pressing concerns, however."

"What are you-"

Sherlock cleared his throat, the sudden sound stilling the words in John's throat as they both looked to the detective instead. Sherlock looked back at them both as though he hadn't made a sound, his eyes lingering on John with quiet words shared between them. So Sherlock wasn't working with John on this. It was a curious thought. Of all the things that Mycroft felt sure would not be held as a secret between them, the plans for their survival were highest among them. John's confusion was real, though. The man lied like a crumb-faced five year old with both hands still stuck in biscuit tin. He didn't know. It was hardly Mycroft's place to scold Sherlock on his methods but it was... curious. The fact that he could not see a benefit in leaving John out only made Mycroft more interested in the plot. But he was alright in discovering it in the aftermath. Whatever it was, it wasn't interfering with his own plans. Pursuing Chapman did.

"Do I have your word that you will cancel this meeting?" he asked, allowing the subject of the camera blackouts to be silenced.

Sherlock tore his eyes from John's and tilted his head in contemplation. "Diana can put us on the books but it's hardly going to go unnoticed unless he's signed off on the idea in the first place-he _wants_ to see us. You can't advise him to stay away from myself and John without showing your hand, and so you need us to cooperate in order to keep a meeting from happening. Bit of an effort just to maintain a level of ignorance, though I'm beginning to wonder on which side you're operating from," he said, his lack of trust seeming to extend in all directions.

Mycroft took a deep breath, considering his last plan of attack on the idea with carefully constructed words. "If you must go, know you do this alone, and the consequences of dealing with scared, power hungry individuals lies on your own heads."

"Occupational hazard," John said, the voice of reason failing to come to Mycroft's final aid. He shrugged, his face scrunching with its companion expression. "Thanks but... yeah, we need this. And we're going to go."

"You were supposed to be the sensible one."

John shook his head. "No, I'm the one who hopes this ends in a fire fight. Stand a much better chance and then at least I'd know what was coming. But, ya know, barring all out war, I'll take a bit of intrigue to get by."

Sherlock chuckled, not more than a few notes on a breath, but his smile pulled every wrinkle of his chin into full and present view. Mycroft rather hated that expression. It was as close to love-struck as his brother got but it reeked of adoration. In many ways it was far more intimate than walking in on a kiss to see his eyes squint with proud possession. Absolutely indecent. Though, in truth, Mycroft had seen enough of them that just seeing them in the same room seemed like overexposure to their atmosphere.

"Promise me you'll try to behave like adults," he conceded, knowing a lost cause when he saw one-two of them, as it seemed. He could work with this. He was going to have to. He was better than to be beaten by his own uncooperative brother.

Sherlock looked away with the posturing of annoyance. "We won't embarrass you, if that's what you're asking. This has nothing to do with you. Just a couple of test subjects looking to explore our political options and meet with our representative about our concerns."

Yes, of course it was. On one side. But there still remained the motivations which fueled Chapman's own actions in agreeing to meet with the very people he seemed to most fear. "Since you won't take my advice... good luck."

"Mm. I'd walk you out but you're closer to the door than I am," Sherlock said with a wave, shooing Mycroft away with stiff fingers extended on a wagging wrist. "Goodbye."

Whatever he was planning, whatever secret he was keeping, whatever strange rules he felt he alone could operate under, Mycroft could not deny the strange feeling that in this, as in many cases before, he simply had to trust in Sherlock Holmes. His brother hadn't exactly let him down in the past-not often enough to bare remembering in any detail. More than that, he'd never let John down. Far from feeling confident, Mycroft felt unnecessary. He couldn't help them. No one could. Not until they said so. Not until _Sherlock_ decreed it. He looked at John with a parting expression of warning, knowing perhaps better than anyone that he would be the one to pay for this all in the end if Sherlock's secrets lead to ruin. But on their own heads be it.

With a nod to both in parting, Mycroft let himself out of the tiny little room. He didn't suspect they'd keep the ashes once they were both dead and cremated. He wasn't even sure he would care to keep them. But it might do to ask. Just to know. It was always good to know one's options.


	11. Chapter 11

John didn't have a nice suit or tie to wear for the occasion but the cold collar around his throat was ornament enough as far as he was concerned. Even if they were sitting down with the influential forces that governed their clustered civilization, Chapman was an arsehole John had never cared much for and wasn't likely to find greater favor in now. But he was happy for Sherlock, more happy for him than he was pleased to see their case progressing. He had focus again and an outlet for his curse-like talents. Getting to see Chapman was the best thing to have happened for him, all things considered. They'd slept and woke up rested for once and had days without terse exchanges. John's chest practically swelled with good feelings all around as he walked beside his partner in steps they'd longed to share again.

Sherlock was impeccably dressed as always, this time in a dark, unpatterened grey. The man still felt the shirts were too baggy and found reasons to complain about belts or even pants, but John thought he looked smart and certainly carried the image of a detective still, even if his suits were no longer tailored to his lines and gentle curves. He looked boxy instead of lithe but he was still arguably a man of taste and breeding to be taken seriously and not to be looked down upon. Not like John. John looked comfortable. It was sort of their good cop/bad cop mechanic. Sherlock brought severity and whit where John supplied empathy and understanding. Sherlock never had to bring himself down to anyone's level but the subject of inquiry did not have to feel overwhelmed and guarded while John was there to soothe their fears that they were dealing with an uncompromising man. They'd always made an excellent team.

Maybe it was the youthful energy that had filled in the aches of his joints. Maybe it was a reaction to plain and simple cabin fever. But he was proud of them. It made him giddy. He was on a case again with his best friend, being escorted by armed guards to see the political elite, full of the warnings of danger, and both of them foolhardy enough not to bat an eye. John was rather in love with them as a concept almost as much as he was in love with Sherlock. They were amazing and easily the dumbest people he knew. And he wouldn't change a god damn thing. Except, realistically, the collar.

The room they were lead to was larger than he expected. Bigger than Mycroft's. John wasn't so certain, given the other man's concerns, that that wasn't a conscious choice. More than just a simple excess in space, though, was the very notable absence of cameras. The whole Ark was covered in them as a safety measure but Chapman seemed to have found his own immunity from surveillance. Or so he probably thought. John wouldn't have been surprised in the least if there happened to be something hidden in a ceiling tile that operated to give Mycroft some small assurance the man hadn't cracked and was dancing in a pink tutu to Lady Marmalade. Not that they all weren't a little crazy. John had a hard time imagining anyone could be considered completely sane after living in a small box underground for two years, forsaking the light of the sun or the blue of the day for absolute security. Mycroft was one thing-a man adapted to the shadows-but even after only six or seven months, John could feel the edge of anxiety that silently screamed for the open air that was all but a promise for those like him, those considered to be immune. He wanted to rub his face in grass and smell the earth and wind. Surely that wasn't just him. Surely everyone felt that way. In John's mind, Sherlock was making angels in the tall grass just to finally feel stretched and unwound.

Chapman certainly looked wound and compacted in the space behind his desk, his eyes darting in an uneasy fashion at the guards that either stood to flank him or served as escort to Sherlock and John himself. Four armed members of the military seemed rather excessive given their circumstances. Who did he think was going to attack him? Coupled with the lack of security cameras, John could not help but shake the uneasy feeling that paranoia had made its home here and that perhaps Mycroft had been right about the lack of quality information the man possessed. Sherlock's hesitation beside him seemed to signal his agreement, his better mind out-seeing what John could detect with observations far more clever than his own. Still, they couldn't just stand around forever waiting for their host to do more than sweat and pale with worry.

"Mr. Chapman," John said, starting to extend a hand then thinking better of it as other hands fell to frame holsters. He forced a smile, trying to project a sense of ease. "Thank you for seeing us."

Chapman's screws seemed to tighten further as his neck shrank under bristled shoulders. "Yes, uh... well. Yes. Sorry about the, uh... Better safe than sorry."

"I suppose. Though I'd like to point out that we're not a threat to you. We're just here to talk." This was John's forte: the calming of the client, the placating of the frightened witness. It didn't generally happen under threat of retaliation but they were adaptab-... _stubborn_. So he supposed it didn't really change anything.

"Mm. Yes. Uh... Yes." Chapman stood up from behind his desk but made no move to cross around it. It was a private little barricade, a heavy wooden obstacle to give his soldiers more time to act. So long as he was willing to speak, it didn't matter where he stood. His level of fear was far more unnerving than empowering, though. What on earth had him this riled up? Overall, he didn't seem all that concerned with John. He looked him over only briefly before staring instead at Sherlock. Even John hadn't missed the way he swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing heavily into the V of his unbuttoned shirt collar. "Well," he said. "Sherlock Holmes. _The_ Sherlock Holmes. I always pictured you as older, but, uh-Hm. So, tell me, are you happy to be alive?"

It was an odd question but it sent unease down John's spine like a thick syrup.

Sherlock's left brow arched. "I think most people are appreciative of their continued survival."

"So you're happy that you're a detriment to mankind?"

John was beginning to understand the fear despite the presence of security if he was going to start with questions like those. John had half a mind to march up closer and explain a few things about the existence of survivors and what he thought qualified someone as a 'detriment to mankind'. Sherlock had a much cooler head than him on the subject. John wasn't a survivor, though-he was a byproduct of the byproduct. He was a witness. And no one who had ever witnessed someone survive from the disease would ever mock their strength and right to life.

Sherlock was always a scientist long before he rose to the rank of champion or hero. So he didn't bristle or scoff, he didn't even roll his eyes. John took care of those while Sherlock simply maintained a composure that proved himself to be far above the limits of humanity Mr. Chapman had bestowed on him. "I believe there is hope to reverse this. Which is why I'm here," he explained, taking a step forward only to be pulled back in line by the firm hand of one of their escorts.

Mr. Chapman shook his head. "You're here to beg for your life."

"I'm here to ask for your assistance in narrowing down the culprit behind the manufacturing of the disease in the first place." Sherlock was maintaining his careful cool much more gracefully than John had expected. He pulled his arm from the soldier's grasp and gave Chapman a glare of accusation but kept a tight lip over his usually venom-tipped fangs. They weren't criminals but they were certainly being treated like them. "If we find who made this, we can hold them accountable and force the release of all information related to the protein. It would give our scientists the chance to reverse this. We're not pushing any initiative, we just want the opportunity to do what it is we do-follow leads and investigate crimes. I'm sure an ambitious man like yourself would enjoy the opportunity to be a hero. The man who championed thousands of survivors and helped cure the entire world. All we need is answers and information, both of which you can give us."

"No."

Sherlock faltered slightly, eyes blinking in rapid succession. "Sorry?"

"I have no interest in the salvation of you and the rest of the abominations. You say that this disease was _manufactured_? I know exactly what you're doing. You think you can point the finger at the Americans to try and save your own skins," the politician ranted.

His misstep hadn't gone unnoticed. The Americans? What did they have to do with anything? Even if Chapman had no intentions of sharing information with them, his sloppy speech made it rather evident they could still come away from this with more than they had before.

Chapman continued. "This is all part of your brother's plan to undermine me. Well too bad. It doesn't matter what sort of propaganda you and he have tried to put together. I know the truth. And nothing you can do will change my mind."

Sherlock seemed even more cautious, the game plan having been changed to placating rather than inquiring, allowing the foolish man to feed them information through his own bias and paranoia than through questions. "I'm only interested in finding the truth-nothing more," he said, hands open to show he meant no harm as much as to disguise their intentions now tucked within his sleeves.

"Well, maybe if you're lucky, the Americans will be more interested in entertaining your theories than I am."

"I'd welcome the chance for a discussion."

Chapman chuckled, the sound nasally and unkind. John didn't like it. It was a sinister sound that did not even try to mask its intentions. John surveyed the guards that stood like box corners around them to see if his own soldier eyes could detect some impending motion that would cue the need to make haste. They stood like statues, though-as unmoved by Chapman's laughter as Chapman was by their request.

The politician smiled thinly as he let his fingers draw against the desk. "Your family has a very bad habit of not knowing your place. There isn't going to be a discussion. I'll hand you over and from that point on, you're none of my concern."

"Hand me over?" Sherlock's brows fell, his eyes sharpening to silver as their gaze pierced through the heavy air.

"It's very simple," Chapman said. "They want you, and I want Mycroft Holmes knocked down a few pegs. If the American's refuse to work with him, the World Congress will have no choice but to compromise and recognize me as the sole governing representative of this great nation."

Sherlock scoffed. "Power through obstinacy. You really believe they hold that level of leverage? Sounds more like ego than endowment."

"If you think I care what a Holmes thinks on the matter, you are quite mistaken. You're not here to argue, you're here to be detained. The Americans have a battle ship anchored a few miles out. They are sending a helicopter to collect you and anything else the British government feels inclined to offer up. As far as anyone needs know, our intentions are purely to collaborate in a centralized location with all our knowledge and samples related to this disease."

"While in reality we're to be executed?"

"I don't care what they do with you or the rest of the abominations." Chapman's full fear and hate were in force, disguised and tempered by nothing. He was a coward acting in the best interest of the coward. He turned John's stomach as he stood there behind his desk, hiding behind four armed men. "I wouldn't be surprised if there happened to be a little accident en route. No one to blame. These things happen in an unstable world."

Sherlock all but growled. "Getting rid of me doesn't get rid of the thousands of other people like me. All it does is destroy the evidence. Only myself and the other test subjects have comprehensive medical records still on file from before we became infected. You hand us over to the Americans, all that happens is that the opportunity to find out what happened is delayed-possibly to the point that medical options are no longer available. You would be sentencing every other survivor to death."

Chapman shrugged, a small smile still caught against his thin lips. "They should have died like everyone else did in the first place. None of you count as human anymore as far as I'm concerned."

"We won't go quietly," John promised, his hands clenched in firsts at his sides as he almost regretted wishing that such things would come to blows. It was two armed soldiers a piece. If he got the jump on the first, he could get his gun and Sherlock's hand-to-hand skill wasn't to be mocked. They weren't bad odds, honestly. And with diplomacy at an end, he'd much rather those odds than the ones Chapman was offering.

The politician visibly flinched at John's words, his eyes growing wide for just a moment before his hand clawed at the drawer to his desk. "Then you won't be going at all," he said, glancing down in the now open drawer before jabbing at something unseen. There wasn't even time to be curious. John felt the needle prick beneath his collar and froze in place, trying to rule out the normal pinch of skin that sometimes happened even as he began to feel his limbs grow heavy. "You all saw it," Chapman insisted. "He charged at the desk. I was defending myself."

Sherlock looked confused, the words not at all matching with reality. He looked down at John only moments before John grabbed hold of his arm, his legs giving way as he felt himself being hastened to the floor by gravity. And he knew. John could see through a haze the exact moment when Sherlock realized what had happened, what was happening, and the fright in his eyes was unyielding. John didn't have a voice to speak with, everything feeling heavy and unnatural as he finally crashed to the ground, the sounds of Sherlock struggling barely audible above the rush of John's own pulse through his ears. He could see blurs of motion and hear unfocused sounds of shouting but other than the cold that rushed from his toes to his fingertips, there was nothing distinguishable except for regrets.

And then, at the last, there really was nothing. Nothing but the cold, the darkness, and John.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock could feel the soldier's grabbing him by the arms, forcing them back to the point of pain as they dragged him towards the walls and away from the body on the floor. He was more aware of the pain in his shoulders than he was of what he was seeing. That pain was numbed to the point of nonexistence. It couldn't be real, after all. That was John. He'd been with him since that morning. And through the night before. And in his presence nearly every hour of the day for weeks. John was a constant, not a variable. So what was he doing down there, on the floor, crumpled and silent? It just didn't make sense.

A gloved hand came up over Sherlock's mouth, his open lips pressing against leather as his tongue tasted the acrid shine. He was shouting then. There was only one word that came to mind. One name. The way they held him back and twisted his joints said he was struggling. This body and its actions did not feel like they were a part of him, somehow disconnected from his mind. In a way, he wasn't sure he knew which part of him had it right: the part that was all heart and instinct, or the part that was all reason, and saw a lump of vacant flesh instead of the still warm corpse of his beloved John.

"Get that out of here," Chapman instructed with a look of disgust as he gestured to his handiwork.

Sherlock sneered, biting down into the gloved flesh as his two halves seem to find common ground in rage. _That_ was John. _That_ was his _client_. And that putrid piece of cowardly filth presuming power behind his desk was a murderer. The game was on. This wasn't about biological warfare or saving thousands of lives anymore. He honestly couldn't care less. This was about a crime no camera had filmed, committed in a locked room with paid off witnesses. And Chapman would go down in flames for this.

The soldier removed his hand quite quickly, shaking out the sting of the bite while his other hand tightened around his elbow in retaliation. An other guard was already in motion, obeying the coward's orders as he took an arm and dragged John towards the door, unfolding him into a straight line that squeaked across the floor on his face. Not human. Not worth any amount of dignity, even in death. Sherlock glared at Chapman as the man stared back at him with the same pale fear on his face as had struck him before he'd ended John's life.

"Him too," he nearly stuttered, all but falling into his chair. "Get him outside. They'll be here within the hour. I want him out there before Mycroft mobilizes. The American forces can deal with it then."

The soldiers gave their nod of acceptance, the last one taking out from his holster the gun that was meant to keep Sherlock at bay as the other two forcibly shoved him. The door was only open for seconds, John's body having passed the threshold with Sherlock several feet behind, when the lights flickered once, twice, and then burned more brightly on surge before fading to the correct wattage. One bulb in the ceiling shattered, Chapman giving a terrified shout as he knocked his knees against the underside of his desk. "It's Mycroft, I know it is!" he screamed, gesturing wildly out the door. "Hurry! Get them out! GET THEM OUT!"

One harsh pull and Sherlock knew his shoulder was out of socket, the pain making white starlight flash behind vision as he tripped on his steps in their hastened retreat. John went one way-towards the Ark central, down towards the interior channels, circling towards the furnace; and he went the other-destined for the outer rings and the long driveway up and out. They were terrible with goodbyes anyway. Rubish. And for some strange reason all he could think was that he'd never asked if Mycroft had kept his promise to him and gotten the teddy bear he'd requested the last time goodbye wasn't an option. Sentiment was never convenient when he truly felt the desire to indulge in the stupid, pointless things that people did. If John was gone, he wanted to watch him burn. He wanted to see the skin melt through the chamber of his ribcage, his organs boil and burst, his hair turn from muddy blonde to coils of black ash. He wanted to see his body be destroyed and know that it was just flesh and bones, even if he didn't believe in anything else.

Focus. Sherlock used the pain in his shoulder to blot out the roar of pain elsewhere. Chapman was wrong-the lights weren't Mycroft's doing. Mycroft's cameras had blackouts that he thought Sherlock was responsible for and the lights in their room behaved unnaturally. Whatever it was, it was centered in on him, and it could be the thing that helped him get away now.

There was something he had forgotten, something he'd heard, something that made it all make sense. It was on the tip of his mind like a name on the tongue. There was a connection, there had to be a connection. One at a time then. First thing's first.

The light switch. Smallest and most inconsequential but repeatable and observable. If Sherlock asked, the lights obliged, regardless of the fact that they were not voice activated. Camera in the room suggested that someone was watching, then. Someone who was able to control the minutia of the power grid and do so quickly.

The cameras. Mycroft's exact words: _If you can manage to orchestrate timed blackouts with the surveillance equipment, getting access to the computer systems should be a fairly simple operation... Would be nice if you would put such resources towards more pressing concerns..._ More pressing concerns than what? What did he think they were using black outs for? His tone at the time had indicated he was aware of his and John's little arrangement-was he implying they cut off the camera to hide their private displays? It fit with his general annoyance but as John's curiosity confirmed, this was not something he himself had set up with Mary. Nor the business with the lights. Everything pointed to acute observation by a third party that had a rather vested interest in them to the point of being obvious.

The busted bulb. That one was easy. As soon as John's dead body was visible from the hallway cameras, the room had experienced a power outage followed by a surge. The cameras were indicative of everything that happened, the common thread, the link that would point to his potential savior who was likely to be watching right now.

So who did he know with a history of voyeurism and an inability to not get involved? Who fit the profile of a person who would use the cameras to track his every movements and who would be so affected by John's death that they would cause power fluctuation in the blind room to try and ferret the assailant out into the open? Parts of it sounded like Mary. The cameras, just like everything else, would feed into the centralized computer where she could-Oh. _Oh!_

In startled revelation, Sherlock laughed. It started as a quiet chuckle but quickly erupted into hysteria as the pieces meshed into perfect accord. He was so stupid. No, _they_ were so stupid. Every last one of them. How had he forgotten? Why had no one caught it before? The laughter jostled him in the soldiers' grip, agitating his shoulder painfully but not enough not to all but cackle at the coming storm.

The soldier to his left squeezed his arm tight. "What are you laughing about?" he demanded.

Sherlock was nearly crying from laughter and pain. Was it really going to be this easy? Was it really possible to have victory this close to defeat? Deus ex machina, he thought, and with that his laugh all but blurted out in a choke.

The soldiers stopped, forcing Sherlock to stand upright as he sagged in their grip. "Stand up," one ordered, the other kicking the back of his leg to urge him to walk, the third poking him in the neck with his gun.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, the lights buzzing overheard in warning. "Didn't anyone tell you? Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to live in a world where he loses John Watson," he informed them, his chin tilting up to stare smiling at the closest camera. "Which is why it's always a good idea to pack a spare."

The lights faded out then burned bright enough to blind as Sherlock closed his eyes and wrenched his good arm out of the soldier's surprised grip, hand to the gun, elbow to disarm the one behind him, and down to the floor as bulbs burst and left them in pitch blackness save for the red power light active on the camera above.


	13. Chapter 13

Of all the utilities which were paramount for the survival of the British people, light was perhaps the most overlooked and yet undeniably the single most important. Without light, the complete darkness of their underground abode would hamper all other action. If any other system malfunctioned, it was possible to fix it so long as you could see the problem. Darkness was a threat to survival and a fear instilled in man from their primitive ancestors. So when the lights went out, it was understandable why the hallways echoed with screams and the phones rang in a panic from those living and working in the outer rings. A simple power outage, Mycroft explained, leaving the story to filter through the channels as means to pacify. Meanwhile he looked to his network, eyes wide in the view of his screens, as unnatural actions filled his vision in the guise of his brother playing master to the Ark.

It did not take long to trace the origin. Mycroft rewound the footage to the first flutter of power to see a sight that caused him a pause of regret. John was being dragged away. A very limp John that did not seem to mind the twist of his arm or the scrape of his face against the floor. That was a pity. He'd always been rather fond of John, though it was hard to find any reason to say this was even remotely a surprise. He'd all but expected it. And then, of course, there was Sherlock with armed escort being pulled along by another route, one that would ultimately lead to the check-in station and the ramp that lead outside. Mycroft didn't need to know much more than that to deduce what was happening. They weren't taking him outside to be shot this time-they'd already proven the effectiveness of their current means of execution. And he most certainly wasn't being set free. So he was being taken to someone, offered up alive for a reason that did not ensure John's life the way it did Sherlock's own. Someone wanted the cover-boy of survivors, the infamous zero-five-seven. Someone who worked with Chapman exclusively. He'd warned him to chose his allies wisely. And as Mycroft watched his brother laugh and smile through the sight of his cameras, he felt rather sure that Chapman would indeed learn just how foolish his choices had been.

The cameras never went black but the lights surged and shattered on Sherlock's command. The microphones remained active and indeed both seemed to be intentional as the man stalked through the darkness.

"We need to discuss your bad habit of following me," he muttered as he walked, the night-vision casting him in green with cameras further on showing only the hint of something coming in the rolling darkness. Sherlock gestured and the lights preceding him exploded in a blinding shield of light. "While I am flattered by your interest, I think even you can understand that certain boundaries exist."

Mycroft stared with confusion far outmatched by even the apparently supernatural display. Who on earth was he talking to? At first it had seemed to be Mycroft himself, after all he had the most reason to be believed to be observing him through the visual network. But it wasn't. He was speaking to the person who controlled the blackouts, then. Mycroft ran a quick scan to find the active terminals that would point to this mystery helper while in his peripheral he watched Sherlock continue along his destructive path.

He could find nothing. Every now and then the sound of a gunshot sent Mycroft's eyes flickering back towards the video footage as he continued to dig deeper through the information channels. Sherlock was shooting at the ceiling and at the floor, the blasts echoing down the hallways like rapid fire as the chorus of ricochets made Mycroft flinch on instinct. Darkness, gunshots, shattering glass; he was creating an atmosphere of terror which seemed to do well in keeping the hallway clear. He needn't bother but there wasn't much Mycroft could do to tell him so. He'd told the army to keep out and had sent orders to stay indoors while they worked on the power issues. No one was coming to stop him-no one loyal to Mycroft at any rate. And the cold-cocked and unconscious bodies that had once forced his steps in the other direction were in no shape to follow as they now laid in complete darkness.

The phone flashed as a call came through, Sarah's voice hardly disguising her own fear as she spoke on the other end. "Mr. Holmes, I have Mr. Chapman on the line. He says it's urgent."

He was quite sure that it was. Sherlock wasn't far from his private offices, the darkness looming just outside those cameras as it lept forward with his advancement. It probably sounded as though an army were knocking at his gates. Mycroft leaned back in his seat and accepted the call, watching Sherlock closing in with mounting interest. "I presume this is about the power outage?" Mycroft asked, implying ignorance above the wealth of insight he possessed.

Chapman was shouting. "I know this is you! I demand you stop at once!"

"I no more control the power grid than I do you. I have my best men on the job."

"Sod the power! Call off your army!"

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't play stupid, Mycroft! I can hear them coming!" He could be heard beating his fist against his desk, a rustle of paper and other kick-nacks clattering as his panic seemed to grow. "You think you can take me down? That you can win this with a coup?"

"Mr. Chapman, the only orders I have given are the explicint instructions not to venture into the corridors until the power has been restored. I'm sure your own contacts can confirm this. I've lost visual and audio of your area so you'll have to excuse any lack of insight." It was a lie but not one anyone would be able to confirm once he was done. Time was of the essence though. Chapman screamed like a child as the bulbs outside his office exploded. Sherlock stood still in the darkness, wavering slightly as he stared at the door, not moving closer just yet as his hands clenched at his sides, one wrapped around the handle of a pistol.

"Mycroft, stop this NOW!"

Sherlock turned to stare up at the camera, looking lost for only a moment before his face turned stone-like with resolve. He was waiting for something, and with a slowness that made him feel uncharacteristically dumb, Mycroft realized it was for him this time. He could hear Chapman in the background, hear him shout at Mycroft with every evidence that right now his attention was not on Sherlock anymore. And it needed to be. His brother was waiting. Of all the things in Mycroft's life that mattered, speaking to Chapman at the hour of his comeuppance was among the least important, though perhaps selfishly fulfilling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Chapman," he lied. "There is nothing I can do. Perhaps you should ask your allies for help instead." He didn't even try to disguise the mocking tone in his voice as he set the receiver down and ended the call. Chapman's obscenities were nearly audible in the recording's background.

Sherlock had that benefit at least to know he had his attention now. He took a deeper breath, his eyes pinched with pain as he stared into the camera with only expectation to believe his brother could see. "Mycroft, I'm not coming back," he said, with multi-chambered death at his fingertips. "What you're looking for is part of the Ark. Find him and you'll never have to worry about strange occurrences in your systems ever again. But give me an hour before you do."

There was no way to respond. There was no use in arguing either. He was going to murder the head of the British government, a crime which would warrant death in a community that could not afford to waste rations on the condemned. Nothing that had happened could possibly be kept on file as it seemed to point to the survivors posing a greater threat than ever imagined. There would be a coverup but nothing close to the truth. None of this was happening so far as history books would go to show. In a way, Mycroft was pleased-almost proud. But in the end, he'd rather a brother than an another sacrifice to the almighty god of politics and irrational fear.

Sherlock stroked his hand down the wall in a gentle gesture, petting the cold panel with a quiet smile. "Thank you, John. You know what to do."

With a final bright burst of white even the cameras went out, eight of them all colored in darkness and now a crash of white-noise and static. Sherlock was indeed on his own, now. And heaven help any man who tried to stand in his way.


	14. Chapter 14




	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock stood in the hallway, eyes closed, as he waited for his vision to adjust to the absence of light. At first there were colors floating through his vision, the remnant rings of the white light that had burst before him, and then disappeared like a scream from a throat slit open. Reds and orange and paisley blue-all colors he remembered but rarely saw anymore. He'd never see them again. He'd open his eyes to darkness, he'd murder in the void, and then embrace his own death in that same lightless quiet. It seemed fitting. He'd bemoaned the constant white that surrounded them in the Ark; that silent, pure, sterilized ambiance of stagnation that boiled beneath his skin. Darkness was colder and less clinical. Where the light had isolation, the blind blackness had an eery quality that was always possibly concealing something just out of the range of one's sight. Hands could grab in the dark and fingers leave trails like the sightless see. John, his John, lingered in that dark with kisses and touches that pushed the madness away. Even if he was half a mile deep into the structure and already laid out on a stretcher to burn, in the darkness there existed everything. Dreams were made in darkness, and even the sleepless could conjure a few in the shadows that sometimes looked like men.

When he opened his eyes, the rings of twilight were no longer burned into his vision leaving nothing but an obsidian abyss though his ears enjoyed a feast of their own. Screams and banging, not all of them sounds coming from the closed door before him, were prominent and violently cried. Most of them had nothing to worry about. The Ark would settle back into functionality, only bulbs needing to be replaced. And when they restored it all-when the memory trapped inside the machine relinquished its control-they would only find two more bodies, both of which had every reason to lie there. He was never going to survive anyway. Not in the Ark. Not even with John. Not without the ability to quietly go back to sleep and wait for the doors to open. Sherlock wasn't made for living in a cage. He missed the open road and the danger. The unpredictability of life and the nonexistent promises that struggles always seemed to neglect. And Chapman? He lacked 'good moral character'. The world would be a better place without him and though Sherlock had never had the stomach for committing murder-though he often thought about it-in this case he was more than willing to make an exception.

Still, it was hard to open the door. He'd lost his rage in the numbness, not that he'd felt much of it for long. Chapman deserved to die and had murdered senselessly the greatest man Sherlock had ever known and yet he could not summon up rage even repeating the facts to himself. Rage required passion. He didn't have any. He just wanted to sleep again and find John once more. He didn't even want to be standing but it seemed rather counterproductive to sit down when he had told himself from the start how this was going to end. He'd asked for an hour and he did not intend to spend the majority of it waiting for that push of assurance that said it was time. He really rather hoped suicide was easier than murder or he had a rather improved chance of fucking it up. And then, of course, Mycroft would mock him for dramatics. So, well, that was out of the question.

John would murder Chapman. Without a second thought, John would be in there, gun in hand with a smoking barrel and a hole in the other man's skull if their places were reversed. And John was his moral compass among many other things so there was no reason to presume this was wrong. Even the memory had agreed without any need to explain. John had more passion than he did, a greater capacity to care. He supposed in some twisted way his surprise that John would want to be with him was limiting his surprise that someone else might take him away. There were a lot of things that didn't feel right about the way he felt. That was the shock, probably. It wasn't as though he had time to correct that before the end, though the feelings it masked he almost longed to bear if only to fuel the actions reason said he must undertake.

He could stand outside the door forever so long as he did not make a sound. But his shoulder still ached and it was time to go to bed. So he turned the handle and opened the door to let the death in like a bottled odor clinging to the stuffy air.

Chapman wasn't visible but that didn't mean Sherlock did not know where he was. The way the phone cord was pulled, the distance of his chair-all black and grey blobs in a lightless void but possible to make out without detail-said the man was hiding under his desk. He was listening, pretending not to be there, trying to figure out what was waiting for him in the darkness. Sherlock closed the door behind himself to give them privacy in their final moments. The click of the latch made the frightened man jump, an elbow, a knee, or the top of his head hitting against the desk and rattling a drawer despite his quiet intentions.

Sherlock cocked the gun, adding his own intentions into the conversation. "You can have your body found cowering under a desk or you can die in your chair. Consider those your only two options." He stepped closer, keeping his movements as quiet as possible outside the rustle of his pant legs as he listened for his prey's movements. A slight scuffle against the floor, crawling on knees, the bump of wood on rollers. Sherlock shot at the desk, hitting the chair instead as one shadow bled into another. "Don't even think about going for your button. Power's out. It's not going to work." It was a lie-the kill switch was a wireless device and the power wasn't out so much as the lights had been destroyed. But the man was as much a coward as he was an idiot. Sherlock wasn't afraid. He felt rather confident he could still kill him even if he did go ahead and try his luck.

Sounds of Chapman scrambling against the floor again filled the silence. "Killing me won't undo this!" he shouted, a definite tremor in his voice.

"It's not meant to," Sherlock told him, his toes hitting the back of the desk as his eyes watched for movement.

The chair moved, being pulled in closer as a shield to keep Sherlock out. So he wanted to be found under the desk, then. That was fine. And of course he started screaming, calling for help, his voice loud and harsh and as abrasive as steel wool against Sherlock's ears. He felt his way around the desk, slowly, not needing to worry about anyone coming to his aid as even Chapman had to know, even as he indulged himself in futility.

When the computer screen came on, it was like a blinding light. Sherlock took several steps back, hand up to guard his eyes from the intense change in ambiance, unable to look directly at it or even indirectly as he turned to face away. Had he bumped a mouse? Of course surge protectors would be standard issue with all Ark computers-stupid, stupid, stupid. Nothing quite called one's bluff like a bright beacon in the dark.

"_Mr. Chapman_," John's voice said, from the speakers of the computer. "_Thank you for seeing us._"

Sherlock's heart dropped into his stomach as he turned his face to try and see into the blinding light of the monitor. They were blobs of shapes but none of them recognizable as John. His eyes burned and watered as he stared, seeing only the weasel-faced Chapman standing behind a desk and the flanking of two armed men.

_"Yes, uh... well. Yes. Sorry about the, uh... Better safe than sorry."_

_"I suppose. Though I'd like to point out that we're not a threat to you. We're just here to talk." _

_"Mm. Yes. Uh... Yes."_

"What the-" Chapman seemed to forget that Sherlock stood in the same room with him, gun in hand and committed to killing him. But he was hearing his own voice and a conversation that could not have been recorded. He did not retreat nor retaliate as he hid and with shaking body listened.

_"If we find who made this, we can hold them accountable and force the release of all information related to the protein. It would give our scientists the chance to reverse this. We're not pushing any initiative, we just want the opportunity to do what it is we do-follow leads and investigate crimes. I'm sure an ambitious man like yourself would enjoy the opportunity to be a hero. The man who championed thousands of survivors and helped cure the entire world. All we need is answers and information, both of which you can give us."_

_"No."_

_"Sorry?"_

_"I have no interest in the salvation of you and the rest of the abominations. You say that this disease was manufactured? I know exactly what you're doing. You think you can point the finger at the Americans to try and save your own skins."_

"Oh, god," Chapman moaned, his shaking intensifying as he rattled the chair in his grip.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was looking at. Line of sight put the camera at around five feet, three inches given the angle of the desk from the floor. It stood left of center and from time to time swept towards the right to capture the image of Sherlock as he questioned the politician. Sometimes it shook up and down, other times side to side. Often, for just a split second, it seemed the shutter closed. It surveyed the soldiers and their guns and then, without cause or warning, it tipped from its pedestal and landed on the floor, going blurry and finally fading black.

_"You all saw it. He charged at the desk. I was defending myself."_

Sherlock stared open mouthed at the evidence on the screen, almost missing the way the download bar tracked its green line across the bottom as it buffered and was sent. Everyone would know. Everyone. It was enough to make him smile as he tapped the barrel of his gun against the chair, never minding the pointless man hiding underneath. A desperate man.

With a roar, Chapman pushed against the chair, the gun almost slipping from Sherlock's grip as suddenly the other man switched to hold there instead, grappling for possession of the loaded weapon in the spotlight of the computer screen.

"It won't end like this!" he shouted, his face red and eyes full of madness as he kicked and pushed and drove them both back with the ferocity of his distress.

In the darkness three shots were heard, the wheels on the overturned chair spinning wildly as the hallway remained empty, flooded in a void of all but sounds that echoed like ghostly howls.


	16. Chapter 16

There was nothing surprising about the video file after everything Mycroft had learned. That was the funny thing about science: it was often the study about how little mankind understood rather than an exercise in understanding. Looking at the flash drive on his desk, with the initials "J.H.W." inscribed across the top in felt marker, there was very little left with the power to surprise. He was mostly tired. And relieved. That round was over, and the game continued on. Not that every player needed to know how the others had fared in their turns.

"This deeply upsetting," the representative of Spain said, her mouth drawn thin as she tapped her matching nails against her desk.

In all, over twenty representatives had been able to make the call after a video leaked to their inboxes. The Americans were not among them. Feigning sleep, Mycroft surmised. It didn't matter. Their presence was not really necessary at this junction.

Mycroft wove his fingers together in front of him, his face kept ceremonially grave as he lead the discussion further. "I agree. And it would appear he felt much the same. Not long after the video was released, Mr. Chapman was discovered dead in his office from a self inflicted gunshot wound. His guilt in the matter of the murder of one of our civilian test subjects is more than evident, though I hesitate to say that was the focus of his guilt. It is clear from this video that he was engaged in secret negotiations with the Americans over zero-five-seven and the rest of our research materials. I find this extremely suspect given their vocalizations on the subject of the survivors and in tandem with the accusations zero-five-seven had come to Mr. Chapman to discuss-accusations to which the minister offered up the Americans as answer in his own muddled way. From what we know and what we've seen, I think it is fair to request from the Americans that they hand over all documentation they have in regards to the disease and in a gesture of good faith, offer them a full pardon if there is any truth to the accusations that they might have played a part in the creation of the disease in hopes of leaving genocide and hostility in our past."

The German president scowled. "Full pardon? If they are responsible for the death of billions, you would have them answer to no one?"

"I would rather hope for a full cure than fight for justice. The death and killing isn't over if we do not tackle this last obstacle. If this is what it takes to make a nation take responsibility and help save the rest, I would gladly bury it in the past."

It was clear that many of them resented the idea. That was fine. Being the nation that advocated for peace gave him a greater power in negotiations when allies recognized his leadership as benevolent and fair. It made France his partner and granted him favor in Greece. They had, after all, just broadcast to the entire world that within the British government there was conspiracy, murder and mental illness. This was damage control as best Mycroft knew it-the long game played out with virtue trumping wisdom until the latter was required. They could trust him. They could be honest with him. And in that trust was the power to manipulate with the simplest gesture of good council. His strings were out there, attaching to the wrists and chins of those eager to be lead during these troubling times. It would be a slow and long process-not nearly as removed from the center ring as he preferred, but there were puppets in his audience just waiting to be controlled. And he would make them into greater leaders so long as they followed the paths of his strings.

Some would be an easier conquest than others. The Turkish leader was not one to find favor in such limitless forgiveness. "Of course you say that," he said, jabbing firmly at the polished surface of his desk. "Your brother is one of the survivors. You have a vested interest in more scientific research."

"My brother is dead," Mycroft informed them, keeping his face impassive though he slid his fingers from their knot and let them fall beneath the table instead so as not to give the illusion of a complete statue though resignation and a hint of grief were allowable for show. "Zero-five-seven was killed alongside zero-five-eight after a power surge caused a malfunction in the kill switch, triggering his collar as well. I'm sure you've heard of our rather unsettling power issues this afternoon."

"And the remaining four?"

Mycroft let his smile warm slightly. "Safe. They were not near enough the wireless source to be affected."

The Swedish councilman gave a slight bow of his head. "We're sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. However, time marches on." He forced a smile, brows raised to dismiss any semblance of a genuine expression but rather a shrug of better times to come. "I think we would all do well not to be sorry for their loss but instead work to make sure the rest of the survivors are given a better chance at life than they had."

There was a murmur of acceptance, a quiet acquiescence towards the greater good above feelings of vengeful rage. Humble Mycroft. Mournful Mycroft. Mycroft, the man who lead. The strings were out and there were games to play. Round one went to Mycroft, with several players now retired for good. As it should be, really. Everyone had their place. And only after one game ended could another truly begin.


	17. Chapter 17

John awoke feeling dizzy, blinded by a white light above him as he stared up at the ceiling, lying flat on his back on a padded shelf. Amidst the immediate confusion there was an almost ingrained sense of memory in the sight and feel of the surface beneath him. He'd laid here before. For a very long time. He blinked and turned his head from the overhead lights and smiled at an eyeful of denim clad ass he'd know anywhere.

"Mary, where's yer coat?" he asked, his tongue a little sloppy on his words as he tried to sit up and found the effort a bit too great a challenge for now. Had it been another test day? He didn't remember that. He didn't remember much of anything, really. Walking down the hall, something about soldiers. He tended to dream a lot about soldiers, though, either in the desert or in someone's back garden. These tests seemed to trigger the worst in his subconscious. It'd been a terrible dream.

Mary pushed his bangs from his forehead, more to gently peel away the probes from his skin than in a placating manner. At least one hair from each eyebrow seemed to have gotten caught in the tape and he grimaced against her slow peel with a grinding of his teeth.

"It was the best place to hide a body," someone was saying, a male voice he remembered somewhat but not in detail. He was hidden behind Mary's curves though his shadow fell in parallel with another person's as he spoke. "When they first proposed the whole poison collar thing, Mary asked if I'd do her a favor and protect John. Wasn't hard. All I had to do was replace the poison cartridge with a heavy anesthetic. Looks the same if you're expecting the victim to fall over unconscious. All bodies come down here for processing, especially those of test subjects, so it was a piece of cake to get a hold of him before anyone could be the wiser. And, of course, the best place to hide a body in a room full of body lockers, is inside the Ark. By the time anyone made rounds, he'd have been awake and we'd have already gotten him out, dressed him in medical gear, and had him out in one of the jeeps heading to Sandhurst to see about aid in the survivor camps."

It was driving John a little crazy not to remember the fellow's name. He knew Mary had introduced him to him. This was going to be slightly awkward if Mary ever finished pulling off probes and pulling out his hair. If he was lucky, the other man would be wearing a name badge. It seemed easier to obsess about the forgotten name than on the missing time. Time would hopefully come to him, the way the man's story seemed to bring itchings of hints to the surface. It really only made him aware he was no longer wearing his collar as he spoke. That was nice. That was very nice indeed. He already felt like he owed the man at least a handshake but seeing as he might also be why his neck was free, perhaps a little peck was in order as well.

"_You_ are a different story. Your collar is real. You weren't scheduled to be woken up so there was no fore-planning involved in yours. It's really not that hard to take off, though. Like those little tabs on clothing at the posh stores. Just don't move for a second and if you feel anything sharp, let me know immediately."

"John, you look a bit drunk," Mary said, peering into his eyes like something colossal suddenly rising over the horizon. He didn't feel drunk. If anything, he felt high. There was a haze over everything that said things were supposed to matter but didn't since they made very little sense anyway. _What was that guys name?_

John flopped his hand over at her, his knuckles beating against her hip. "Mary. Mary, Mary. Where's yer coat? I mean, Mary. Mary, that one. The, uh-" he raised his other hand, making a beak of his fingers and thumb to mime speech.

Mary smiled at him with a barely concealed chuckle. "You mean Jeremy?"

"Jeremy! Yes! That's it!" Oh, that was a relief. One mystery down. Sherlock would be proud. "Mary. Mary."

"What?"

"Did he take the thingy off?"

"He took your collar off, yep."

"Mary. Mary. Mary, don't tell Sherlock. Mary, I'ma kiss that man."

Mary's chuckle grew into a full laugh as she wrenched one last probe from his temple. "John, it is such a shame you're not going to remember any of this in another hour," she managed through a giggle, looping an arm under his shoulders as she helped him to rise.

Well, if he hadn't felt like throwing up before, he certainly did now. John grabbed the side of the stretcher with both hands, eyes trying to focus as Mary gave continued support to his back. Was it really necessary to move? This was not fun. This was the exact opposite of fun. This was worse than having to talk to that Chapman fellow. Chapman? Oh, yeah, Chapman. Hadn't he been... something? Oh, that was annoying. And it made his mouth taste like bile and his brain turn cold. No, this was not fun. Worst yet. When the testing was over, he was going to have to tell those stupid scientists that they were going to have to rework this one. Uhg, his mouth just tasted _terrible_.

"So what happens now?" the man asked.

The voice that replied set butterflies in John's stomach. "We have a vehicle waiting." It was Sherlock-no voice could ever be mistaken for his lover's rumbling baritone. "Both John and I are officially dead and therefore have no place in the Ark. We're being released into the wild, so to speak. No conditions. No strings attached. If we survive, we survive. It's quite the appealing option for two dead men."

Turning his head just slightly, John could see his Sherlock sitting on a different slab, white dressings against his shoulder with his arm trapped in a sling and the ends of the metal collar sliding down his clavicle as a man standing behind him dragged it off and away. He looked like hell but he smiled as he caught John's eye. Well, shit, he probably heard him talk about kissing collar man-_Jeremy_, shit. Well that wasn't good. Actually, that didn't really matter. Who hurt Sherlock? Why was his arm in a sling? John scowled and tried to get his legs swung over the side but Mary put out her hands to stop him, holding down firm against his thigh.

"John, you're still under the effects of the anesthesia. You're going to hurt yourself."

John shook his head, ignoring the burst of colors behind his eyes at the way it made his brain rumble in his skull. "Nuh uh. Sherlock." It made sense to him. That was a complete sentence, really.

"Sherlock's fine," Mary said, rubbing her hand against his back to sooth away his worries. She turned her head with a frown at the detective. "You going to say anything to him or just sit there watching?"

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder. "He's not going to remember any of this."

"So?"

As far as counter arguments went, John couldn't remember too many which were much better than that. Sherlock's brows knitted over tired eyes as he let his posture sag. "Would either of you mind leaving us alone for a second, then?" he asked, sliding down off his stretcher to cross the short ways that put him beside John's own. It was a little annoying that even sitting up on a gurney didn't put his head any higher in relation to Sherlock's.

Mary gave a kiss to John's cheek then stepped aside, her shadow passing along with another's as a door somewhere behind him clicked closed. He didn't pay it much mind, honestly. Sherlock was there. No greater a sign of their privacy was there than the way Sherlock's hand came to rest against his cheek, the gentle wash of his thumb over his face as he bent and kissed his forehead. It was lovely and then it was annoying. He couldn't just kiss him and make him forget that he was hurt. He couldn't just stand there with his eyes out of sight and think he'd ignore the way they clouded in pain. Did the scientists hurt him? He was going to kill them if they did. But still he liked the way Sherlock's hand wrapped around his neck, the feel of skin without the bite of cold metal, as he pressed their foreheads together.

"It's probably unfair to you that I would rather you not remember this, but I think if you knew how much I love you, it would feel more like a burden than it could ever bring you joy." His voice was soft and deep, meant for just the two of them. John liked this. He didn't feel so much like throwing up anymore with his warmth, his sound, his sight-every sense piking up traces of Sherlock like steel bars grounding him to a sturdy foundation. It was lovely. Sherlock was lovely. His voice was like milk and honey. "I love you so much, that when they took you from me in that dream world, I created a version of you that would never leave me. I created a whole new person based on you, something between an imaginary friend and a split personality. I broke apart because you weren't in my life anymore. And when I woke up, I left that fragment behind. That's why there's only one-not a copy of the dreamers' memories but a fragment of my own. I should have known; it was much smarter than you after all." He paused for a shy laugh, petting John's face again in those warm swashes of fingertips. "My love for you became a physical force that saved us. Arguably, your friends saved you. Sorry about that. I would have liked to have played a greater part. But my fragmented memory found you in the Ark and turned your memories into the perfect ammunition. If I didn't love you, I'd be dead. If I didn't have you, there would be no reason for me to exist. I need you in every corner of my life. You are air. And as frightening to me as it is to know so much of me is contingent on you, I cannot bear the thought of you knowing. Because the fear that someday you might not be there is the strength that keeps me from becoming complacent. I will not guilt my way into deserving your love. I will fight for it. Every day. Until I know that I have won."

John smiled, snaking a hand against his hip as he let his head fall to nuzzle beneath his jaw. "Isn't not having those damn collars great?" he asked, loving that there was no interruption between forehead, nose and cheek as he nestled in with a sigh.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then gently stroked his head. "Yes, it is," he said, tilting in against his hair as he let him rest quietly with the haze still settling in over everything past, present and future.


	18. Chapter 18

Nature had reclaimed a great deal in the absence of men. There were trees growing in the middle of the highways, whole sides of buildings covered in moss. Three years was far from enough time to erase the damaged countryside but efforts had certainly been undertaken and the creatures that howled in the night were more numerous than Sherlock had remembered. There were some patches of people but not many. Together Sherlock and John stole clothes from shops and other sundries like sugar, tea, salt and bullets for every gun they could collect. In a world with no power and no running water, they weren't just scavengers anymore, they were settlers. They grabbed seeds and herbs from deserted gardens and the back of the SUV rattled with clay pots bumping against each other on every cracked or unpaved road. They drove until they found a place with more to offer than they could take with them. They settled in Sussex, cloistered in a humble cottage with wide windows that faced the south, plenty of overgrown forest nearby and a stream of fresh water that had long since lost the taste of unnatural tampering.

They planted food in every available plot. John's background as a soldier and a doctor gave way to skills in hunting and butchering as he took outings in the early mornings to track and kill their meals. Sherlock and he devised their own traps and salted and buried in plastic containers the leftovers to keep cold in the ground for later. They made plans to travel out and see about finding some domesticated animals-cows, mostly. At least one. Chickens wouldn't go amiss either. For the time being, all they had were some bees.

The first winter nearly killed them. If neither had a successful hunt, they went hungry. Their frozen garden left them nothing to harvest once their small stores had run dry. Sherlock digested books of horticulture while John read up on herbal remedies. They built a green house out of cannibalized pieces of neighboring houses while the earth was still somewhat frozen. Every lesson they learned they did so the first time around. They never went hungry again.

By the second year they had their cow and chickens, their pilgrimages never boring and generally not without some manner of success. Their garden was a small field and their green house on rotation with seasonal favorites. There wasn't time to be bored. Even routine was less a challenge when not following it promised failure and death.

But not everything was a struggle.

Sitting in the bath, his legs parted on either side of John who sat with his back against the opposite end, Sherlock let himself relax into water that was hot enough to cook them both alive. The water always cooled far too quickly for his liking even if it scolded when they first got in. His tanned skin was already rosy from the sun. John, brown as a nut, looked very flavorful indeed in their soup of soiled men.

"I'm going to kill that cow," John threatened, head back as he relaxed tired muscles and bones.

Sherlock tapped him with his feet, wagging them beside his shoulders as his toes helped cool the rest of him. "You're not going to kill the cow," Sherlock replied, watching the water wave to expose the line of dirt that separated John's exposed chest from his submerged torso. He was covered in dust-probably took a tumble while working the animals. She'd tried to kick him again, it seemed. Well, it wasn't the first time. Sherlock smirked. "Maybe you're just not as good with women as you thought."

"Sherlock, there is a significant difference in handling a woman's breasts and a cow's udders."

The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sank down to his chin, legs rolling up to their knees on the outside of the tub. "Well, what is lacks in crossovers with women..."

"Don't. Dear god, don't." John closed his eyes on a sour expression though a smile was clearly hiding beneath. "I still gag if I try and drink it when it's still warm. There is no way I could milk her at all if I were thinking... uhg. No. Though now that you say that, a couple things you've been trying lately make sense."

Sherlock shrugged his brows, not about to argue with decent observations.

John shook his head with a smirk and turned a kiss to Sherlock's knee. "You can take care of her tomorrow. I need a break."

"Trade you cow for compost?"

"Cow fo~r... um... yeah, alright. Compost."

Sherlock gave a wicked smile. He'd much rather deal with buckets of milk rather than one full of shit. She must have either actually kicked him or come very close to it indeed. It was hard to see under the water if there was a bruise along his ribs. Perhaps on his back. He didn't seem to be complaining of any pain but such things were so superficial for them it tended to not bother being discussed.

John kissed his knee again, his hand rubbing along the underside of his thigh. "There a reason you've got your knees up here by my shoulders?" he asked, all but winking as he smirked down at Sherlock sunk low in the tub.

"Well, it's a small space for two people," he said, keeping a straight face.

John chuckled and leaned forward, drawing his own knees in as he bent Sherlock's down, pressing them between them as Sherlock grabbed at the side of the tub to keep his head above the water. He sputtered and laughed, wiggling his feet in the open air. "If we play around like this, I will drown," he warned.

John met his lips with laughter and gave him a long, languid kiss. "When we're done then," he said, and sat back, taking one of Sherlock's arms with him to help pull him further up from his sunken slouch. He maneuvered them both until he could lay his back against Sherlock's chest, both their legs now splayed on the tub rim in pointless tangles of dark and light. His head rested at Sherlock's shoulder, and he closed his eyes as the ripples of water settled between them.

Sherlock let his cheek rest against his hair and closed his eyes as well, letting John's warmth keep the cold away as the water grew tepid in the tub.

"Are you ever surprised it turned out like this?" John asked, his hand over Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock nodded, his smile a secret among John's dark blonde hair. "I'd have to say the greatest surprise to me has always been that you're here with me."

He could tell from his silence that wasn't quite what he meant. He meant the cow and the chickens, the little farm and their shed of winters skins. He meant boiling hot water for their baths and taking summer trips down old foot trails. He meant the outhouse and the green house and the SUV with the dead battery. He didn't mean everything that came before, but that was how causal relationships worked. John had had one choice: throw everything away for Sherlock, or throw Sherlock away in exchange for everything. Since the moment they hit the road together, their path was set. This was always where they were going to end up, here or buried in the ground. John took a chance and saved him that day. Everything else was just... life.

John kissed his shoulder and gave his arm a squeeze. "You're an idiot, sometimes," he said, with all the affection of 'I love you'.

Sherlock chuckled, breathing in deep. "Yeah, I know. You too."


End file.
